THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


The  Writings  of 
FIONA    MACLEOD 


UNIFORM  EDITION 


ARRANGED  BY 

MRS.   WILLIAM    SHARP 


"The  net-work  of  words  is  like  a  big  forest; 
it  is  the  cause  of  curious  wanderings." 

INDIAN  SAYING. 


The  Silence  of  Amor 
Where  the  Forest  Murmurs 


BY 

FIONA    MACLEOD" 

(WILLIAM   SHARP) 


NEW    YORK 

DUFFIELD    &    COMPANY 
1910 


COPYRIGHT,  1895,  BY 
STONE  &   KIMBALL 


COPYRIGHT,  1902,  BY 
THOMAS  B.    MOSHER 


COPYRIGHT,  1910,  BY 
DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 


THE   TROW   PRESS,    NEW   YORK 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  SILENCE  OF  AMOR i 

TRAGIC  LANDSCAPES 35 

WHERE  THE  FOREST  MURMURS 53 

WHERE  THE  FOREST  MURMURS  ....      57 

THE  MOUNTAIN  CHARM' 68 

THE  CLANS  OF  THE  GRASS 81 

THE  TIDES ,   , .    f     .      .     92 

THE  HILL-TARN     .      .      .      ...      .      .      .103 

AT  THE  TURN  OF  THE  YEAR 112 

THE  SONS  OF  THE  NORTH  WIND      .      .      .122 
ST.  BRIGET  OF  THE  SHORES       .      .      .      .132 

THE  HERALDS  OF  MARCH 144 

THE  TRIBE  OF  THE  PLOVER 157 

THE  AWAKENER  OF  THE  WOODS      .      .      .    171 

THE   WILD-APPLE 183 

RUNNING  WATERS       .      '.     ,     .      .      .      .195 

THE  SUMMER  HERALDS 205 

THE  SEA-SPELL 217 

SUMMER   CLOUDS 227 

THE  CUCKOO'S  SILENCE 237 

THE  COMING  OF  DUSK 247 

v 


Contents 

WHERE  THE  FOREST  MURMURS — Continued  PA(JB 
Ax  THE  RISING  OF  THE  MOON  ....  259 

THE  GARDENS  OP  THE  SEA 270 

THE  MILKY  WAY 280 

SEPTEMBER 291 

THE  CHILDREN  OP  WIND  AND  THE  CLAN 

OF  PEACE 301 

STILL  WATERS  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .314 

THE  PLEIAD-MONTH 324 

THE  RAINY  HYADES 336 

WINTER  STARS.  I  .  349 

WINTER  STARS.  II  .  .  .  \  ..  .  .  360 
BEYOND  THE  BLUE  SEPTENTRIONS.  Two 

LEGENDS  OF  THE  POLAR  STARS  .  .  .  372 
WHITE  WEATHER:  A  MOUNTAIN  REVERIE  388 
ROSA  MYSTICA  (AND  ROSES  OF  AUTUMN)  .  398 
THE  STAR  OF  REST:  A  FRAGMENT  .  .  410 
AN  ALMANAC 411 

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 412 

By  Mrs.  William  Sharp. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  AMOR 


"A re  they  gone,  these  twain,  who  loved  with  death- 
less love.  Or  is  this  a  dream  that  I  have  dreamed. 

"Afar  in  an  island-sanctuary  that  I  shall  not 
see  again,  where  the  wind  chants  the  blind  oblivious 
rune  of  Time,  1  have  heard  the  graesss  whisper: 
Time  never  was,  Time  is  not." 

"ULA  AND  URLA." 


TO    ESCLARMOUNDO 

There  is  one  word  never  spoken  in  these 
estrays  of  passion  and  longing.  But  you, 
White  Flower  of  these  fugitive  blossoms, 
know  it :  for  the  rustle  of  the  wings  of  Amor 
awakens  you  at  dawn,  and  in  the  last  quiet- 
udes of  the  dark  your  heart  is  his  dear  haven 
of  dream. 

For,  truly,  that  wandering  voice,  that  twi- 
light-whisper, that  breath  so  dewy  sweet,  that 
flame-wing'd  luteplayer  whom  none  sees  but 
for  a  moment,  in  a  rainbow-shimmer  of  joy, 
or  a  sudden  lightning-flare  of  passion,  this  ex- 
quisite mystery  we  call  Amor,  comes,  to  some 
rapt  visionaries  at  least,  not  with  a  song  upon 
the  lips  that  all  may  hear,  or  with  blithe  viol 
of  a  public  music,  but  as  one  wrought  by 
ecstasy,  dumbly  eloquent  with  desire,  ineffable, 
silent. 

For  Amor  is  ofttimes  a  dreamer,  and  when 
he  dreams  it  is  through  lovely  analogies.  He 
speaks  not,  he  whispers  not,  who  in  the  flight 
of  the  wild  swan  against  the  frosty  stars,  or  in 
the  interlaceries  of  black  branches  against  the 

3 


To  Esclarmoundo 

moonlight,  or  the  abrupt  song  of  a  bird  in  the 
green  gloom  of  the  forest,  hears  the  voice  that 
is  all  Music  for  him,  sees  the  face  of  his  un- 
attainable Desire.  These  things  are  his  si- 
lences, wherein  his  heart  and  his  passion  com- 
mune. And  being  his,  they  are  mine:  to  lay 
before  you,  Dear ;  as  a  worshipper,  wrought  to 
incommunicable  pain,  lays  white  flowers  before 
the  altar,  which  is  his  Sanctuary  and  the  Ivory 
Gate  of  his  Joy. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  AMOR 


In  the  hollows  of  quiet  places  we  may  meet,  the 
quiet  places  where  is  neither  moon  nor  sun,  but  only 
the  light  as  of  amber  and  pale  gold  that  comes  from 
the  Hills  of  the  Heart.  There,  listen  at  times:  there 
you  will  call,  and  I  hear:  there  will  I  whisper,  and 
that  whisper  will  come  to  you  as  dew  is  gathered  into 
the  grass,  at  the  rising  of  the  moon. 


THE   SHADOWY   WOODLANDS 

Above  the  shadowy  woodlands  I  hear  the 
voice  of  the  cuckoo,  sailing  like  a  silver  skiff 
upon  the  moonflood. 

I  hear  the  far-off  plaint  of  the  cuckoo  sink 
deep  through  the  moonshine  above  the  sha- 
dowy woodlands.  At  last,  in  the  dense  shadow 
of  the  wood,  the  moonlight  sleeps. 


AT  THE  RISING  OF  THE  MOON 

At  the  rising  of  the  moon  I  heard  the  fall- 
ing echo  of  a  song,  down  by  the  linn  where  the 
wild  brier  hangs  over  the  swirling  foam.  Ah, 
swirling  foam,  ah,  poignant  breath  of  the  wild 
brier,  now  that  I  hear  no  haunting-sweet  echo 
of  a  falling  song  at  the  rising  of  the  moon. 


NOCTURNE 

By  dim,  mauve  and  dream-white  bushes  of 
lilac  I  pass  to  the  cypress  alley,  and  to  the 
mere  which  lies  breathless  in  the  moonshine. 
A  fish  leaps,  a  momentary  flame  of  fire.  Then 
all  is  still  again  on  the  moonlit  mere,  where, 
breathless,  it  lies  beyond  the  cypress  alley.  In 
the  vague  moonshine  of  the  cypress  alley  I 
pass  again,  a  silent  shadow,  by  the  dim, 
mauve  and  dream-white  bushes  of  lilac. 


LANCES   OF    GOLD 

The  afternoon  has  drowsed  through  the 
sun-flood.  The  green  leaves  have  grown  gold- 
en, saturated  with  light.  And  now,  at  the  sud- 
den whirling  of  the  lances  of  gold,  a  cloud  of 
wild-doves  arises  from  the  pines,  wheels 
against  the  sunblaze,  and  flashes  out  of  sight, 
flames  of  purple  and  rose,  of  foam-white  and 
pink.  I  know  the  green  hidden  nests  of  the 
wild-doves,  when  ye  come  again,  O  whirling 
lances  of  gold ! 


10 


THE   NIGHTJAR 

Low  upon  a  pine-branch  a  nightjar  leans 
and  sings  his  churring  song.  He  sings  his 
churring  song  to  his  mate,  who,  poised  upon  a 
juniper  hard  by,  listens  with  quivering  wings. 

The  whirring  of  the  nightjar  fills  the  dusk, 
heavy  with  the  fragrance  of  new-mown  hay. 
There  is  neither  star  nor  moon  in  the  dim, 
flowing  darkness,  only  the  red  and  yellow  way- 
faring flames  where  the  glow-worms  are. 
Like  a  wandering  wave,  in  the  dewy  dark,  the 
churring  note  of  the  nightjar  rises  and  falls 
against  the  juniper  bush  hard  by. 


n 


THE   TWILIT   WATERS 

Upon  the  dim  seas  in  the  twilight  I  hear  the 
tide  forging  slowly  through  the  still  waters. 
There  is  not  a  sound  else :  neither  the  scream 
of  a  sea-mew,  nor  the  harsh  cry  of  the  heron, 
nor  the  idle  song  of  the  wind :  only  the  stead- 
fast forging  of  the  tide  through  the  still  waters 
of  the  twilit  seas.  O  steadfast  onward  tide, 
O  gloaming-hidden  palpitating  seas ! 


12 


EVOE! 

Oceanward,  the  sea-horses  sweep  magnifi- 
cently, champing  and  whirling  white  foam 
about  their  green  flanks,  and  tossing  on  high 
their  manes  of  sunlit  rainbow-gold,  dazzling 
white  and  multitudinous  far  as  sight  can  reach. 

O  champing  horses  of  my  soul,  toss,  toss, 
on  high  your  sunlit  manes,  your  manes  of 
rainbow-gold,  dazzling  white  and  multitudin- 
ous: for  I  too  rejoice,  rejoice! 


GREY   AND   ROSE 

I  watched  the  greying  of  the  dawn  suspir- 
ing into  rose.  Then  a  yellow  ripple  came  out 
of  the  narrow  corrie  at  the  summit  of  the  hill. 
The  yellow  ripple  ran  like  the  running  tide 
through  the  flushing  grey,  and  washed  in 
among  the  sprays  of  a  birch  beside  me  and 
among  the  rowan-clusters  of  a  mountain-ash. 
But  at  the  falling  of  the  sun  the  yellow  ripple 
was  an  ebbing  tide,  and  the  sprays  of  the  birch 
were  as  a  perishing  flame  and  the  rowan-ber- 
ries were  red  as  drops  of  blood.  Thereafter  I 
watched  the  rose  slow  fading  into  the  grey 
veils  of  dusk.  O  greying  of  my  dawn  suspir- 
ing into  rose :  O  grey  veils  of  dusk  that  ob- 
scure the  tender  flushing  of  my  rose-lit  dawn ! 


HIGH    NOON 

To-day,  as  I  walked  at  high  noon,  listening 
to  the  larks  filling  the  April  blue  with  a  spray 
of  delicate  song,  I  saw  a  shadow  pass  me, 
where  no  one  was,  and  where  nothing  moved, 
above  me  or  around. 

It  was  not  my  shadow  that  passed  me,  nor 
the  shadow  of  one  for  whom  I  longed.  That 
other  shadow  came  not. 

I  have  heard  that  there  is  a  god  clothed  in 
shadow  who  goes  to  and  fro  among  the  human 
kind,  putting  silence  between  hearts  with  his 
waving  hands,  and  breathing  a  chill  out  of  his 
cold  breath,  and  leaving  a  gulf  as  of  deep 
waters  flowing  between  them  because  of  the 
passing  of  his  feet. 

Thus,  thus  it  was  that  that  other  shadow 
for  which  I  longed  came  not.  Yet,  in  the  April 
blue  I  heard  the  wild  aerial  chimes  of  song, 
and  watched  the  golden  fulfilment  of  the  day 
under  the  high,  illimitable  arch  of  noon. 


THE    WHITE   MERLE 

Long,  long  ago,  a  white  merle  flew  out  of 
Eden.  Its  song  has  been  in  the  world  ever 
since,  but  few  there  are  who  have  seen  the 
flash  of  its  white  wings  through  the  green- 
gloom  of  the  living  wood — the  sun-splashed, 
rain-drenched,  mist-girt,  storm-beat  wood  of 
human  life. 

But  to-day,  as  I  came  through  the  wood, 
under  an  arch  of  tempest,  and  led  by  light- 
nings, I  passed  into  a  green  sun-splashed  place. 
There,  there,  I  heard  the  singing  of  a  rapt  song 
of  joy!  there,  ah,  there  I  saw  the  flash  of 
white  wings! 


16 


THE    IMMORTALS 

I  saw  the  Weaver  of  Dream,  an  immortal 
shape  of  star-eyed  Silence;  and  the  Weaver 
of  Death,  a  lovely  Dusk  with  a  heart  of  hidden 
flame:  and  each  wove  with  the  shuttles  of 
Beauty  and  Wonder  and  Mystery. 

I  knew  not  which  was  the  more  fair:  for 
Death  seemed  to  me  as  Love,  and  in  the  eyes 
of  Dream  I  saw  Joy.  Oh,  come,  come  to  me, 
Weaver  of  Dream!  Come,  come  unto  me,  O 
Lovely  Dusk,  thou  that  hast  the  heart  of  hid- 
den flame! 


THE   WEAVER   OF   HOPE 

Again  I  saw  a  beautiful  lordly  one.  He, 
too,  lifted  the  three  shuttles  of  Beauty  and 
Wonder  and  Mystery,  and  wove  a  mist  of  rain- 
bows. Rainbow  after  rainbow  he  wrought  out 
of  the  mist  of  glory  that  he  made,  and  sent 
each  forth  to  drift  across  the  desert  of  the 
human  soul,  and  o'er  every  haunted  valley  of 
defeated  dreams. 

O  drifting  rainbows  of  Hope,  I  know  a  pale 
place,  a  haunted  valley  of  defeated  dreams. 


18 


THE   GOLDEN    TIDES 

The  moon  lay  low  above  the  sea,  and  all  the 
flowing  gold  and  flashing  silver  of  the  rippling, 
running  water  seemed  to  be  a  flood  going  that 
way  and  falling  into  the  shining  hollow  of  the 
moon.  Oh,  that  the  tides  of  my  heart,  for 
ever  flowing  one  way,  might  fall  to  rest  in  the 
hollow  of  a  golden  moon. 


iQ 


NOCTURNE 

A  pale  golden  flame  illumines  the  suspended 
billows  of  the  forest.  Star  after  star  emerges, 
where  the  moongold  laps  the  velvet-soft  shores 
of  dusk.  Slowly  the  yellowing  flame  arises 
like  smoke  among  the  dark-blue  depths.  The 
white  rays  of  the  stars  wander  over  the  move- 
less, over  the  shadowless  and  breathless  green 
lawns  of  the  tree-tops.  Oh,  would  that  I  were 
a  star  lost  deep  within  the  paling  yellow  flame 
that  illumes  the  suspended  billows  of  the 
forest. 


20 


THE   REED    PLAYER 

I  saw  one  put  a  hollow  reed  to  his  lips.  It 
was  a  forlorn,  sweet  air  that  he  played,  an  an- 
cient forgotten  strain  learned  of  a  shepherding 
woman  upon  the  hills.  The  Song  of  Songs 
it  was  that  he  played:  and  the  beating  of 
hearts  was  heard,  and  I  heard  sighs,  and  a 
voice  like  a  distant  bird-song  rose  and  fell. 

"  Play  me  a  song  of  Death,"  I  said.  Then 
he  who  had  the  hollow  reed  at  his  lips  smiled, 
and  he  played  again  the  Song  of  Songs. 


21 


HY   BRASIL 

I  heard  the  voice  of  the  wind  among  the 
pines.  It  was  as  the  tide  coming  over  smooth 
sands.  On  the  red  pine-boles  the  sun  flamed 
goldenly  out  of  the  west.  In  falling  cadences 
the  cuckoos  called  across  the  tides  of  light. 

In  dreams,  now,  I  hear  the  cuckoos  calling 
across  a  dim  sea  of  light,  there  where  a  sun 
that  never  rose  nor  set  flames  goldenly  upon 
ancient  trees,  in  whose  midst  the  wind  goes 
sighingly,  with  a  sound  as  of  the  tide  slipping 
swift  over  smooth  sands.  And  I  hear  a  soli- 
tary voice  singing  there,  where  I  stand  beside 
the  gold-flamed  pine-boles  and  look  with  hun- 
gry eyes  against  the  light  of  a  sun  that  never 
rose  nor  set. 


22 


THE  WILD   BEES 

There  was  a  man,  seeking  Peace,  who  found 
a  precious  treasure  in  the  heather,  when  the 
bells  were  sweet  with  honey-ooze.  Did  the 
wild  bees  know  of  it?  Would  that  I  could 
hear  the  soft  hum  of  their  gauzy  wings. 

Where  blooms  that  heather,  and  what  wind 
is  it  that  moveth  the  bells  that  are  sweet  with 
the  honey-ooze  ?  Only  the  wild  bees  know  of 
it ;  but  I  think  they  must  be  the  bees  of  Magh- 
Mell,  the  bees  that  make  a  sweet  sound  in  the 
drowsy  ears  of  those  who  be'neath  the  heather 
have  indeed  found  rest  by  the  dim  waysides  of 
Peace. 


WHIRLED   STARS 

The  rain  has  ceased  falling  softly  through 
the  dusk.  A  cool  green  wind  flows  through 
the  deeps  of  air.  The  stars  are  as  wind- 
whirled  fruit  blown  upward  from  the  tree- 
tops.  Full-orbed,  and  with  a  pulse  of  flame, 
the  moon  leads  a  tide  of  quiet  light  over  the 
brown  shores  of  the  world. 

But  here,  here  where  I  stand  upon  the  brown 
shores  of  the  world,  in  the  shine  of  that  quiet 
flame  where,  full-orbed,  the  moon  uplifts  the 
dark,  I  think  only  of  the  stars  as  wind-whirled 
fruit  blown  upward  from  the  tree-tops.  I 
think  only  of  that  wind  that  blew  upon  the 
tree-tops,  where  the  whirling  stars  spun  in  a 
mazy  dance,  when,  at  last,  the  rain  had  ceased 
falling  softly  through  the  dusk.  O  wind- 
whirled  stars,  O  secret  falling  rain ! 


24 


ORCHIL 

I  dreamed  of  Orchil,  the  dim  goddess  who 
is  under  the  brown  earth,  in  a  vast  cavern, 
where  she  weaves  at  two  looms.  With  one 
hand  she  weaves  life  upward  through  the 
grass ;  with  the  other  she  weaves  death  down- 
ward through  the  mould ;  and  the  sound  of  the 
weaving  is  Eternity,  and  the  name  of  it  in  the 
green  world  is  Time.  And,  through  all,  Orchil 
weaves  the  weft  of  Eternal  Beauty,  that  pass- 
eth  not,  though  its  soul  is  Change. 

This  is  my  comfort,  O  Beauty  that  art  of 
Time,  who  am  faint  and  hopeless  in  the  strong 
sound  of  that  other  weaving,  where  Orchil,  the 
dim  goddess,  sits  dreaming  at  her  loom  under 
the  brown  earth. 


FUIT   ILIUM 

I  see  the  lift  of  the  dark,  the  lovely  advance 
of  the  lunar  twilight,  the  miracle  of  the  yel- 
low bloom — golden  here  and  here  white  as 
frost-fire — upon  sea  and  land.  I  see,  and  yet 
see  not.  I  hear  the  muffled  voice  of  ocean  and 
soft  recurrent  whisperings  of  the  foam-white 
runnels  at  my  feet :  I  hear,  and  yet  hear  not. 
But  one  sound,  one  voice,  I  hear;  one  gleam, 
one  vision,  I  see:  O  irrevocable,  ineffable 
Desire ! 


26 


THE   SEA-SHELL 

In  the  heart  of  the  shell  a  wild-rose  flush 
lies  shut  from  wind  or  wave;  lies  close,  and 
dreams  to  the  unceasing  lullaby  that  the  sea- 
shell  sings. 

O  would  that  I  were  that  wild-rose  flush, 
shut  close  from  wind  or  wave:  O  would  that 
I  were  that  wild-rose  flush  to  dream  for  ever 
to  the  unceasing  song  my  sea-shell  sings. 


THE   WHITE   PROCESSION 

One  by  one  the  stars  come  forth — solemn 
eyes  watching  for  ever  the  white  procession 
move  onward  orderly  where  there  is  neither 
height,  nor  depth,  nor  beginning,  nor  end. 

In  the  vast  stellar  space  the  moonglow 
wanes  until  it  grows  cold,  white,  ineffably  re- 
mote. Only  upon  our  little  dusky  earth,  upon 
our  restless  span  of  waters,  the  light  descends 
in  a  tender  warmth. 

Deep  gladness  to  me,  though  but  the  crea- 
ture of  an  hour,  that  I  am  on  this  little  moon- 
lit dusky  earth.  Too  cold,  too  white,  too  in- 
effably remote  the  moonglow  in  these  vast 
wastes  of  Infinity  where,  one  by  one,  the  con- 
stellations roam — solemn  witnesses  watching 
for  ever  the  white  procession  move  onward 
orderly  where  there  is  neither  height,  nor 
depth,  nor  beginning,  nor  end. 


AERIAL    CHIMES 

Through  the  blue  deeps  of  noon  I  heard  the 
cuckoo  tolling  his  infrequent  peals  from 
skiey  belfries  built  of  sun  and  mist. 

And  now,  through  the  blue  deeps  of  night, 
from  skiey  belfries  built  of  dusk  and  stars,  I 
hear  the  tolling  of  infrequent  peals. 


THE   HILLS   OF   DREAM 

The  tide  of  noon  is  upon  the  hills.  Amid 
leagues. of  purple  heather,  of  pale  amethyst 
ling,  stand  isled  great  yellow-lichened  granite 
boulders,  fringed  with  tawny  bracken.  In  the 
vast  dome  of  blue  there  is  nought  visible  save 
a  speck  of  white,  a  gannet  that  drifts  above 
the  invisible  sea.  And  through  the  hot  tide  of 
noon  goes,  a  breath  as  of  the  heart  of  flame. 
Far  off,  far  off,  I  know  dim  hills  of  dream, 
and  there  my  heart  suspends  as  a  white  bird 
longing  for  home:  and  there,  oh  there,  is  a 
heart  of  flame,  and  the  breath  of  it  is  as  the 
tide  of  noon  upon  these  hills  of  dream. 


THE   TWO    ETERNITIES 

Time  never  was,  Time  is  not.  Thus  I  heard 
the  grasses  whisper,  the  green  lips  of  the  wind 
that  chants  the  blind  oblivious  rune  of  Time, 
far  in  that  island-sanctuary  that  I  shall  not  see 
again. 

Time  never  was,  Time  is  not.  O  Time  that 
was !  O  Time  that  is ! 


FOREWORD   TO   THE   ORIGINAL 
EDITION 

These  prose  rhythms,  written  a  year  or  two 
earlier,  were  first  published  in  1896,  at  the  end  of  the 
volume  of  verse  From  the  Hills  of  Dream.  They 
were  taken  by  many  reviewers  to  be  prose-poems. 
I  do  not  call  them  so,  for  I  think  the  designation  a 
mistake.  Prose  is  prose,  and  poetry  is  poetry. 
The  two  arts  are  distinct,  though  they  may  lie  so 
close  in  method  and  achievement  as  to  seem  to 
differ  only  in  degree.  But  it  is  possible  to  widen  the 
marches  of  the  one,  as  it  is  possible  for  the  rash  to 
cross  the  frontiers  of  the  other.  I  do  not  know 
who  was  the  first  to  attempt  the  illusion  of  poetry 
in  the  signature  of  prose,  but  Turge"niev  stands 
eminent,  and  Baudelaire  added  a  subtler  artifice 
to  the  simple  emotional  statement  of  the  great 
Russian.  The  most  famous  user  of  "free  verse"  is, 
of  course,  Whitman.  This  is  not  the  place  or  oc- 
casion to  discuss  these  problems  in  detail.  Each 
is  either  a  real  art  or  a  fantastical  and  mistaken 
aberration  from  art — disordered  prose  or  lawless 
verse  —  in  accordance  with  the  conviction  of  the 
critic  that  the  artifice  of  prose  and  the  artifice  of 
prosody  are  as  allied  as  the  music  of  viola  and 
violin,  or  the  conviction  that  they  are  as  different  in 
kind  as  the  art  of  the  sculptor  and  the  aquarellist. 

As  one  does  not  care  to  hear  a  picture  called  a 
sonata,  or  a  symphony  a  "great  tone-poem,"  or  to 
hear  any  form  or  art  called  by  the  title  of  another 
art's  nomenclature,  so  it  would  be  more  scrupulous 
to  avoid  the  literary  use  of  "prose-poem." 

It  is  obvious  that  there  are  emotions  and  in- 
tensified sentiments  which,  while  they  may  or  may 
not  desire  expression  in  that  constrained  utterance 
(the  primary  condition  of  music)  we  call  poetry, 
must  needs  quiver  for  freedom  under  the  reins  of 
ordinary  prose.  In  other  words,  there  is,  under  the 
stress  of  emotion,  an  inevitable  reversion  to  the 

32 


Foreword  to  the  Original  Edition 


impulse  to  chant.  And  as  one  of  the  characteristics 
of  the  primitive  chant  is  repetition,  either  choric  or 
in  the  narrative  cadence — as  in  the  sorrow  of  Oisin 
Grey  ase  of  the  rocks  is  on  me,  grey  age  of  the  rocks: 
I  am  old,  1  am  old!  so  in  that  literary  form,  the 
prose-rhythm  of  to-day,  will  commonly  be  found 
an  iteration  more  or  less  insistent,  more  or  less 
subtle  and  involved.  It  is  this  substitution  of  a 
calculated  monotony  and  of  a  careful  iteration — a 
recurrence  either  of  order  and  cadence,  or  of  a  like 
cadence  with  an  inverted  order — which  differentiates 
the  brief  and  complete  prose-rhythm  from  the 
dubious  "prose-poem,"  so  apt  to  be  merely  ornate 
crested  with  metaphor  or  plumed  with  hyper- 


In  looking  again  at  this  little  book  of  mine  I  see 
that  compositions  such  as  "When  Dalua  was 
King"  and  "Of  Blossom  and  Wind"  are  not  prop- 
erly prose-rhythms  in  the  sense  of  lost  or  faint  airs  of 
memory  or  desire  for  a  moment  heard  and  captured ; 
as,  for  example,  "Shadowy  Woodlands,"  or  "At 
the  Rising  of  the  Moon."  They  have  an  arbitrary 
introduction;  they  are  not  cadences  rising  and  fall- 
ing on  the  wind.  In  a  word,  they  are  written  as 
words  to  be  read  rather  than  as  words  to  be  chanted. 
The  test  of  these  forms  is  to  read  them  aloud.  If 
they  have  not  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  wind  upon  the 
hill,  the  wave  upon  the  shore,  the  murmur  in  the 
woods,  they  are  not  prose-rhythms  in  the  sense 
indicated.  They  must  come  suddenly  and  silently 
as  the  twilight  airs.  In  their  coming  and  going 
they  must  not  be  as  intervals  of  an  inconstant  wind, 
but  must  each  be  a  wind,  an  air,  a  breath,  that  is 
as  complete,  as  final,  as  a  few  brief  sudden  notes  of 
song  from  the  moonlit  thickets  of  May,  as  the  sound 
of  a  swallow's  wing  in  the  dusk. 

Within  the  last  few  years  others  who  have  felt 
the  charm  of  this  subtle  form  —  that  has  in  it  the 
atmosphere  and  music  we  know  best  when  borne 
to  us  on  the  wings  of  metre,  and  the  sinuous  glide 
or  swift  march  of  an  ordered  and  uplifted  prose — 
have  experimented  with  it.  I  believe  that  in 
America  it  has  votaries:  in  France  and  Italy  it 
certainly  has.  I  daresay  that  to  the  Latin  tempera- 

33 


Foreword  to  the  Original  Edition 

ment — to  which  a  little  vagueness  of  form,  with 
adumbration  rather  than  limning  of  feature,  comes 
with  the  charm  of  novelty — the  temptation  is  more 
natural.  We  are  makers  first,  and  then  artists 
when  may  be:  they  are  artists  first.  The  nuances 
of  expression  in  any  art  can  come  only  from  an 
instinctive  and  trained  mental  and  spiritual  finesse. 
Of  all  who  have  tried  this  method  systematically 
as  a  narrative  form  perhaps  the  best  known  is  the 
author  of  the  Chants  de  Bilitis,  but  I  myself  know 
of  none  who  has  so  true  an  understanding  and  so 
deft  a  faculty  as  Paul  Fort.  I  am  sorry  I  knew 
nothing  of  his  work  till  last  year,  when  I  read  the 
fascinating  Roman  de  Louis  XI.  In  the  prologue 
to  that  book  I  found  this  significant  sentence — 
"J'ai  cherche1  un  style  pouvant  passer,  au  gre"  de 
I'e'motion,  de  la  prose  au  vers  et  du  vers  a  la  prose: 
la  prose  rhythmic  fournit  la  transition." 

After  that  I  read  all  M.  Fort's  writings,  from  the 
first,  Ballades  Francoises,  which  was  published  so 
recently  as  1897.  Frankly  I  do  not  think  his 
method  suitable  for  narrative:  if  used  narratively, 
then  possibly  the  paragraphic  and  brief  sectional 
method  of  Bilitis  is  better  than  that  of  the  Roman 
de  Louis  XI.  Probably  the  future  of  the  prose- 
rhythm  as  a  literary  method  is  assured:  for  as  the 
general  impulse  towards  art  widens  so  will  the  rarer 
individual  impulse  to  subtlety  deepen.  If  any 
think  that  the  form  may  be  adopted  because  easier 
than  metrical  composition,  it  should  be  left  alone. 
No  artist  desires  open  gates  or  short  cuts.  The 
value  of  the  form  will  lie  in  its  adaptability  to  an 
emotional  mood  desiring  a  particular  rhythm  and 
a  particular  harmony  that  is  something  more  than 
the  lightest  tread  of  prose,  something  less  than  the 
delicate  or  stately  measures  of  verse.  In  a  word, 
the  desiderated  form  is  the  Chant,  tamed  now  to  a 
low  and  subtle  modulation,  in  transition  from  the 
rude  choric  cry  to  the  song  wedded  to  viol  or  flute, 
or  the  lyric  fashioned  to  charm  the  inward  ear. 

FIONA  MACLEOD. 


34 


TRAGIC  LANDSCAPES 


Tragic   Landscapes 


THE   TEMPEST 

The  forest  undulated  across  the  land  in  vast 
black-green  billows.  Their  sombre  solitudes 
held  no  light.  The  sky  was  of  a  uniform 
grey,  a  dull  metallic  hue  such  as  the  sea  takes 
when  a  rainy  wind  conies  out  of  the  east. 
There  was  not  a  break  in  the  appalling  mo- 
notony. 

To  the  north  rose  a  chain  of  mountains. 
Connecting  one  to  another  were  serrated 
scaurs,  or  cleft,  tortured,  and  precipitous 
ridges.  The  wild-stag  had  his  sanctuary  here ; 
here  were  reared  the  young  of  the  osprey,  the 
raven,  the  kestrel,  and  the  corbie.  On  the 
extreme  heights  the  eagles  called  from  their 
eyries  at  sunrise;  at  sundown  they  might  be 
seen  whirling  like  minute  discs  around  the 
flaming  peaks. 

An  absolute  silence  prevailed.  At  long  in- 
tervals there  was  the  restless  mewing  of  a 

37 


The  Tempest 

wind-eddy,  baffled  among  the  remote  corries. 
Sometimes,  far  beneath  and  beyond,  in  the 
mid-most  depths  of  the  forest,  a  sound,  as  of 
the  flowing  tide  at  an  immeasurable  distance, 
rose,  sighed  through  the  grey  silences,  and 
sank  into  their  drowning  depths. 

At  noon,  a  slight  stir  was  visible  here  and 
there.  Two  crows  drifted  inky-black  against 
the  slate-grey  firmament.  A  kestrel,  hovering 
over  a  rocky  wilderness,  screamed,  and  with  a 
sudden  slant  cut  the  heavy  air,  skimmed  the 
ground,  breasted  the  extreme  summits  of  the 
pines,  and  sailed  slowly  westward,  silent,  ap- 
parently motionless,  till  absorbed  into  the 
gloom.  A  slight  mist  rose  from  a  stagnant 
place.  On  a  black  moorland  tract,  miles  away 
from  where  the  forest  began,  two  small,  gaunt 
creatures,  human  males,  stooped  continually, 
tearing  at  the  peaty  soil. 

By  the  fourth  hour  from  noon,  there  was 
nothing  audible;  not  a  thing  visible,  save  the 
black-gloom  overhead,  the  green-gloom  of  the 
vast  pine-forest,  the  grey  sterility  of  the  hills, 
to  the  north. 

Towards  the  fifth  hour,  a  sickly  white  flame 
darted  forkedly  out  of  the  slate-hued  sky  to 
the  northwest.  There  was  no  wind,  no  stir  of 
any  kind,  following.  The  same  breathless 
silence  brooded  everywhere. 
38 


The  Tempest 

Close  upon  the  sixth  hour  a  strange  shiver- 
ing went  through  a  portion  of  the  forest.  It 
was  as  though  the  flank  of  a  monster  quivered. 
A  confused  rustling  arose,  ebbed,  died  away. 
Thrice  at  long  intervals  the  narrow,  jagged 
flame  lunged  and  thrust,  as  a  needle  thridding 
the  two  horizons.  At  a  vast  distance  a  wail,  a 
murmur,  a  faint  vanishing  cry,  might  be  heard, 
like  the  humming  of  a  gnat.  It  was  the  wind, 
tearing  and  lashing  the  extreme  frontiers,  and 
screaming  in  its  blind  fury. 

A  raven  came  flying  rapidly  out  of  the  west. 
Again  and  again  in  its  undeviating  flight  its 
hoarse  croak  reechoed  as  though  it  fell  clang- 
ing from  ledge  to  brazen  ledge.  At  an  im- 
mense height,  three  eagles,  no  larger  than 
three  pin-points,  winging  their  way  at  ter- 
rific speed,  seemed  to  crawl  like  ants  along 
the  blank  slope  of  a  summitless  and  endless 
wall. 

In  the  southwest  the  greyness  became  in- 
volved. Dark  masses  bulged  forward.  A  gi- 
gantic hand  appeared  to  mould  them  from  be- 
hind. The  ponderous  avalanches  of  rain  were 
suspended,  lifted,  whirled  this  way  and  that, 
fused,  divided,  and  swung  low  over  the  earth 
like  horrible  balloons  of  death. 

Furtive  eddies  of  wind  moved  stealthily 
among  the  forest-trees.  The  pines  were  mo- 

39 


The  Tempest 

tionless,  though  a  thin  song  ascended  spirally 
the  columnar  boles ;  but  the  near  beeches  were 
flooded  with  innumerable  green  wavelets  of 
unquiet  light.  A  constant  tremor  lived  sus- 
pensive in  every  birk,  in  every  rowan.  On  the 
hither  frontier  of  the  pines  a  few  scattered 
oaks  lifted  their  upper  boughs,  lifted  and 
lapsed,  slowly  lifted  again  and  slowly  lapsed. 
These  were  silent,  though  a  confused  murmur 
as  of  bewildered  bees  came  from  the  foliage 
midway  and  beneath.  Wan  green  tongues  of 
air  licked  the  fronds  of  the  myriad  bracken. 
Swift  arrows  of  wind,  narrow  as  reeds,  darted 
through  the  fern  and  over  the  patches  of  grass, 
leaving  for  a  moment  a  wake  of  white  light. 
By  a  pool  the  bulrushes  seemed  to  strain 
their  tufty  heads  one  way,  listening;  the  tall, 
slim  fairy-lances  beside  them  continually 
trembled. 

Suddenly  there  was  an  obscure  noise  upon 
the  hills.  Far  off,  a  linn  roared  hoarsely, 
whose  voice  had  been  muffled  before.  Many 
streams  and  hill-torrents  called.  Then  the 
mountain-wind  came  rushing  down  the  strath, 
with  incoherent  shouts  and  a  confused  tumult 
of  tidings.  Every  green  thing  moved  one  way, 
or  stood  back  upon  itself  as  a  javelin-thrower. 
In  the  tragic  silence  of  the  forest  and  the 
moorland,  the  pulse  of  the  earth  beat  slowly, 
40 


The  Tempest 

heavily.  A  suffocating  grip  was  at  the  brown 
heart. 

But  the  moment  the  hill-wind  dashed 
through  the  swaying  rowans  and  beeches,  and 
leaped  into  the  forest,  a  hurricane  of  cries 
arose.  Every  tree  called  to  its  neighbour ;  each 
pine  shouted,  screamed,  moaned,  or  chanted 
a  wild  song;  the  more  ancient  lifted  a  deep 
voice,  mocking  and  defiant.  For  now  they 
knew  what  was  coming. 

The  sea-tempest  was  climbing  up  over  the 
back  of  the  sun,  and  had  already,  with  rolling 
thunders  and  frightful  sulphurous  blasts,  with 
flame  of  many  lightnings  and  vast  volumes  of 
cloud  holding  seas  of  rain  and  gravelly  ava- 
lanches of  hail,  attacked,  prostrated,  trampled 
upon,  mutilated,  slain  and  twice  slain,  the  far- 
off  battalions  of  the  forest!  This  was  what 
the  herald  of  the  hills  proclaimed,  as  with 
panic  haste  he  leaped  through  the  woods 
screaming  wild  warnings  as  he  went. 

For  leagues  and  leagues  he  swept  onward, 
then,  suddenly  swerving,  raced  up  a  rock- 
bastioned  height  that  rose  in  the  forest.  For 
a  while  he  swung  suspensive,  then,  swaying 
blindly,  fell  back  stumbling,  and,  as  one  deliri- 
ous, staggered  to  the  forest  again,  and  once 
more  flew  like  a  flying  deer,  though  no  longer 
forward  but  by  the  way  he  had  come. 

41 


The  Tempest 

"The  Tempest!  The  Tempest!"  he 
screamed :  "  The  Tempest  comes !  " 

Soon  all  the  forest  knew  what  he  had  seen. 
Distant  lines  of  great  trees  were  being  mowed 
down  as  by  a  scythe ;  gigantic  pines  were  being 
torn  from  the  ground  and  hurled  hither  and 
thither ;  the  Black  Loch  had  become  a  flood ; 
the  river  had  swollen  into  a  frightful  spate, 
and  raged  and  ravened  like  a  beast  of  prey. 
He  had  seen  cattle  fall,  slain  by  lightning;  a 
stag  had  crashed  downwards  as  he  leaped  from 
boulder  to  boulder;  the  huts  of  some  hu- 
mans had  been  laid  low,  and  the  sprawling 
creatures  beneath  been  killed  or  mutilated; 
sheep  had  been  dashed  up  against  stone-dykes 
and  left  lifeless.  The  air  in  places  was  thick 
and  dark  with  whirling  grouse,  snipe,  wild- 
doves,  lapwings,  crows,  and  a  dust  of  small 
birds. 

A  moan  went  up  from  the  forest — a  new 
sound,  horrible,  full  of  awe,  of  terror,  of  de- 
spair. In  the  blank  grey  hollows  of  the  moun- 
tains to  the  north  the  echo  of  this  was  as 
though  the  Grave  were  opened,  and  the  Dead 
moaned. 

Young  and  old  moved  near  to  each  other, 

with  clinging  boughs,  and   tremulous  sprays 

and  branches.     The  fluttering  leaves  made  a 

confused    babble    of    tongues.      The    males 

42 


The  Tempest 

swirled  their  upper  boughs  continuously,  in- 
clining their  bodies  now  this  way  and  now  that. 
The  ancient  pines  spread  their  boles  as  far  as 
they  could  reach,  murmuring  low  to  their  green 
offspring,  and  to  the  tender  offspring  of  these. 
Sighs  and  sobs,  swift  admonitions,  and  sud- 
den, passionate  heart-break  cries  resounded. 
Death  would  be  among  them  in  a  few  mo- 
ments; all  could  not  survive,  many  must  per- 
ish, patriarch  and  sapling,  proud  bridegroom 
and  swaying  bride,  the  withered  and  the 
strong. 

From  the  extreme  edge  there  was  a  con- 
stant emigration  of  living  things.  The  birds 
sank  among  the  bracken. 

Some  deer,  three  human  males  and 
a  female,  some  foxes  and  stoats  came 
out  into  the  open,  hesitated,  and  slowly 
retreated. 

The  first  thunder-chariot  now  hurtled  over- 
head. The  charioteer  leaned  low,  and  thrust 
hither  and  thither  with  his  frightful  lance.  A 
deer  was  killed,  also  the  human  female  and  one 
of  the  males.  A  scorching  smell  came  from  a 
spruce-fir ;  the  next  moment  it  hung  in  tongues 
of  flame. 

Then — silence :  awful,  appalling.  Suddenly, 
the  heaven  opened  in  fire ;  the  earth  became  a 
hollow  globe  of  brass  wherein  an  excruciating 

43 


The  Tempest 

tumult  whirled  ruin  against  ruin.  The  howl 
of  desolation  seemed  to  belch  at  once  from  the 
entrails  of  the  mountains  and  from  the  bowels 
of  the  bursting  sky. 

The  Tempest  was  come! 


44 


II 

MIST 

A  dense  white  mist  lay  upon  the  hills,  cloth- 
ing them  from  summit  to  base  in  a  dripping 
shroud.  The  damp  spongy  peat  everywhere 
sweated  forth  its  overwelling  ooze.  Not  a 
living  thing  seemed  to  haunt  the  desolation, 
though  once  or  twice  a  faint  cry  from  a  be- 
wildered curlew  came  stumblingly  through  the 
sodden  atmosphere. 

There  was  neither  day  nor  night,  but  only 
the  lifeless  gloom  of  the  endless,  weary  rain, 
thin,  soaking,  full  of  the  chill  and  silence  of 
the  grave. 

Hour  lapsed  into  hour,  till  at  last  the  grad- 
ual deepening  of  the  mists  betokened  the 
dreary  end  of  the  dreary  day.  Soaked,  boggy, 
treacherous  as  were  the  drenched  and  pool- 
haunted  moors,  no  living  thing,  not  even  the 
restless  hill-sheep,  fared  across  them.  But  to- 
wards the  late  afternoon  a  stooping  figure 
passed  from  gloom  to  gloom — wan,  silent, 
making  the  awfulness  of  the  hour  and  the 
place  take  on  a  new  desolation. 

45 


Mist 

As  the  shadow  stole  slowly  across  the  moor, 
it  stopped  ever  and  anon.  It  was  a  man.  The 
heavy  moisture  on  his  brow  from  the  rain 
passing  through  his  matted  hair  mixed  with 
the  great  drops  of  sweat  that  gathered  there 
continually.  For  as  often  as  he  stopped  he 
heard  footsteps  anigh,  footsteps  in  that  lonely 
deserted  place — sometimes  following,  some- 
times beyond  him,  sometimes  almost  at  his 
side.  Yet  it  was  not  for  the  sound  of  those 
following  feet  that  he  stopped,  but  because  on 
the  rain-matted  cranberry-bushes  or  upon  the 
glistening  thyme  or  on  the  sodden  grass,  he 
saw  now  bloody  foot-marks,  now  marks  of 
bloody  fingers.  When  he  looked,  there  was 
nothing  below  or  beyond  him  but  the  dull  sheen 
of  the  rain-soaked  herbage;  when  he  looked 
again,  a  bloody  footstep,  a  bloody  finger-mark. 

But  at  last  the  following  feet  were  heard  no 
more,  the  bloody  imprints  were  no  more  seen. 
The  man  stood  beside  a  deep  tarn,  and  was 
looking  into  it,  as  the  damned  in  hell  look  into 
their  souls. 

At  times  a  faint,  almost  inaudible  sigh 
breathed  behind  the  mist  in  one  direction.  It 
was  the  hill-wind  stirring  among  the  scaurs 
and  corries  at  a  great  height  on  a  mountain 
to  the  north.  Here  and  there,  a  slight  drifting 
of  the  vapour  disclosed  a  shadowy  boulder: 
46 


Mist 

then  the  veils  would  lapse  and  intervolve,  and 
the  old  impermeable  obscurity  prevail. 

It  was  in  one  of  these  fugitive  intervals  that 
a  stag,  standing  upon  an  overhanging  rock,  be- 
held another,  a  rival  with  whom  it  had  fought 
almost  to  the  death  the  day  before.  This  second 
stag  stood  among  the  wet  bracken,  his  ears 
now  laid  back,  now  extended  quiveringly,  his 
nostrils  vibrating,  as  he  strove  to  smell  the 
something  that  moved  through  the  dense  mist 
by  the  tarn. 

The  upper  stag  tautened  his  haunches.  His 
lips  and  nostrils  curled,  and  left  his  yellow 
teeth  agleam.  The  next  moment  he  had 
launched  himself  upon  his  enemy.  There  was 
a  crash,  a  sound  as  of  a  wind-lashed  sea,  sharp 
cries  and  panting  breaths,  groans.  Then  a 
long  silence.  Later,  a  single  faint,  perishing 
bleat  came  through  the  mist  from  the  fern 
far  up  upon  the  hill. 

The  restless  wind  that  was  amid  the  sum- 
mits died.  Night  crept  up  from  glen  and 
strath ;  the  veils  of  mist  grew  more  and  more 
obscure,  more  dark.  At  last,  from  the  ex- 
treme peaks  to  where  the  torrent  crawled  into 
hollows  in  the  sterile  valley,  there  was  a  uni- 
form pall  of  blackness. 

In  the  chill,  soaking  silence  not  a  thing 
stirred,  not  a  sound  was  audible. 

47 


Ill 

SUMMER-SLEEP 

The  high-road  sinuated  like  a  white  snake, 
along  the  steeper  slope  of  the  valley.  The  vast 
expanse  of  the  lowland  lay  basking  in  the  July 
sunlight.  In  all  directions  woodlands,  mostly 
of  planes  and  oaks,  swelled  or  lapsed  in  green 
billows. 

The  cuckoo  had  gone ;  the  thrush  was  silent ; 
blackbird  and  shilfa  and  linnet  were  now  song- 
less.  But  every  here  and  there  a  lark  still 
filled  the  summer  air,  as  with  the  cool  spray  of 
aerial  music;  in  the  grain  the  corncrakes 
called ;  and,  in  shadowy  places,  in  the  twilight, 
the  churring  of  a  belated  fern-owl  was  still  a 
midsummer  sweetness  upon  the  ear. 

The  gloom  of  July  was  upon  the  trees.  The 
oaks  dreamed  of  green  water.  The  limes  were 
already  displaying  fugitive  yellow  banners. 
A  red  flush  dusked  the  green-gloom  of  the 
sycamores.  But  by  far  the  greater  mass  of  the 
woodlands  consisted  of  planes ;  and  these  were 
now  of  a  black  green  darker  than  that  of 
48 


Summer-Sleep 

north-wind  waves  on  a  day  of  storm.  The 
meadows,  too,  lay  in  the  shadow,  as  it  were, 
even  when  the  sun-flood  poured  upon  them. 

From  the  low  ranges  to  the  south  a  faint 
wind  drifted  leisurely  northward.  The  sky 
was  of  a  vivid  blue,  up  whose  invisible  azure 
ledges  a  few  rounded  clouds,  dazzling  white  or 
grey  as  swan's-down,  climbed  imperceptibly. 

In  the  air  was  a  pleasant  murmur  of  the 
green  world.  The  wild-bee  and  the  wasp,  the 
dragon-fly  and  the  gnat,  wrought  everywhere 
a  humming  undertone.  From  copse  and  garth 
and  water-meadow  suspired  an  audible  breath. 

The  lowing  of  kine  from  many  steadings 
blended  with  the  continuous  murmur  of  a 
weir,  where  the  river  curved  under  ancient 
alders  and  slipped  into  a  dense  green  shaw  of 
birches  beyond  an  old  water-mill,  whose  vast 
black  wheel,  jagged  and  broken,  swung  slowly, 
fanning  the  hot  air  so  that  it  made  a  haze  as 
of  faint-falling  rain. 

Peace  was  upon  the  land,  and  beauty.  The 
languor  of  dream  gave  the  late  summer  a  love- 
liness that  was  all  its  own — as  of  a  fair  woman, 
asleep,  dreaming  of  the  lover  who  has  not 
long  left  her,  and  the  touch  of  whose  lips  is 
still  warm  upon  her  mouth  and  hair. 

Along  the  high-road,  where  it  made  a  sweep 
southwestward,  and  led  to  a  small  hamlet  of 

49 


Summer-Sleep 

thatched,  white-walled  cottages,  three  men 
walked.  The  long  fantastic  shadows  which 
they  cast  were  pale  blue  upon  the  chalky  dust 
of  the  road,  and  leaped  and  contracted  and  slid 
stealthily  forward  with  wearisome,  monoton- 
ous energy.  Two  of  the  men  were  tall  and 
fair ;  one  dark,  loosely  built,  and  of  a  smaller 
and  slighter  build. 

"  There  is  my  home,"  said  the  tallest  way- 
farer suddenly,  after  what  had  been  a  long 
silence;  and  as  he  spoke  he  pointed  to  a 
small  square  house  set  among  orchard-trees,  a 
stone's  throw  from  the  hamlet. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  place,"  replied  his  com- 
rade, slowly,  "  and  I  envy  you." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  added  the  other. 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  so,"  the  owner  of  the 
house  answered  quietly. 

But  the  three  shadows  leapt  to  one  side, 
moved  with  fantastic  steps,  and  seemed  con- 
vulsed with  laughter. 

Perhaps  the  tall  shiver-grass  that  rose  by 
the  wayside  out  of  the  garth  of  campions  and 
purple  scabious  could  catch  the  attenuated 
sounds  and  understand  the  speech  of  the  sha- 
dows. If  so,  it  would  know  that  the  taller  of 
the  two  strangers  said  in  his  heart: — 

"  There  is  something  of  awe,  of  terror  about 
that  house ;  nay,  the  whole  land  here  is  under 

50 


Summer-Sleep 

a  tragic  gloom.  I  should  die  here,  stifled.  I 
am  glad  I  go  on  the  morrow." 

It  would  know  that  the  smaller  and  darker 
of  the  two  strangers  said  in  his  heart: — 

"  It  may  all  be  beautiful  and  peaceful,  but 
something  tragic  hides  behind  this  flooding 
sunlight,  behind  these  dark  woodlands,  down 
by  the  water-course  there,  past  the  water-mill, 
up  by  that  house  among  the  orchard-trees." 

It  would  know  that  the  tallest  of  the  three 
men,  he  who  lived  in  that  square  cottage  by  the 
pleasant  hamlet,  said  in  his  heart: — 

"  It  may  be  that  the  gate  of  hell  is  hidden 
there  among  the  grass,  or  beneath  the  founda- 
tions of  my  house.  Would  God  I  were  free ! 
O  my  God,  madness  and  death !  " 

Then,  after  another  long  silence,  as  the  three 
wayfarers  drew  near,  the  dark  man  murmured 
his  pleasure  at  the  comely  hamlet,  at  the  quiet 
hand  lying  warm  in  the  afternoon  glow.  And 
his  companion  said  that  rest  and  coolness 
would  be  welcome,  and  doubly  so  in  so  fair 
and  peaceful  a  home.  And  the  tallest  of  the 
three,  he  who  owned  the  house  in  the  orchard, 
laughed  blithely.  And  all  three  moved  on- 
ward, with  quickened  steps,  through  the  hot, 
sweet,  dusty  afternoon,  golden  now  with  the 
waning  sun-glow. 


WHERE  THE  FOREST 

MURMURS 
NATURE  ESSAYS 


"  There  through  the  branches  go  the  ravens  of 
unresting  thought." 

W.  B.  YEATS. 


TO 

MR.  P.  ANDERSON  GRAHAM 

DEAR  MR.  GRAHAM — To  whom  so  fittingly  as  to 
you  could  I  inscribe  this  book?  It  was  you  who 
suggested  it ;  you  who  in  Country  Life  published  at 
intervals,  longer  or  shorter  as  the  errant  spirit  of 
composition  moved  me,  the  several  papers  which 
make  it  one  book;  you  without  whose  encourage- 
ment and  good  counsel  this  volume  would  probably 
not  have  been  written.  Then,  perchance,  it  might 
have  gone  to  that  Y-Brasil  Press  in  the  Country 
of  the  Young  wherefrom  are  issued  all  the  delight- 
ful books  which,  though  possible  and  welcome  in 
Tir-na-n'Og,  are  unachieved  in  this  more  difficult 
world,  except  in  dreams  and  hopes.  It  would  be 
good  to  have  readers  among  the  kindly  Shee  ...  do 
not  the  poets  there  know  an  easy  time,  having  only 
to  breathe  their  thought  on  to  a  leaf  and  to  whis- 
per their  music  to  a  reed,  and  lo  the  poem  is  public 
from  the  caverns  of  Tir-fo-tuinn  to  the  hills  of 
Flatheanas!  .  .  .  but,  till  one  gets  behind  the  foam 
yonder,  the  desire  of  the  heart  is  for  comrades  here. 
These  hours  of  beauty  have  meant  so  much  to  me, 
somewhat  in  the  writing,  but  much  more  in  the 
long,  incalculable  hours  and  days  out  of  which  the 
writing  has  risen  like  the  blue  smoke  out  of  woods, 
that  I  want  to  share  them  with  others,  who  may 
care  for  the  things  written  of  as  you  and  I  care 
for  them,  and  among  whom  may  be  a  few  who, 
likewise,  will  be  moved  to  garner  from  each  day  of 
the  eternal  pageant  one  hour  of  unforgettable 
beauty. 

FIONA  MACLEOD. 

55 


Many  runes  the  cold  has  taught  me, 
Many  lays  the  rain  has  brought  me, 
Other  songs  the  winds  have  sung  me; 
Many  birds  from  many  forests 
Oft  have  sung  me  lays  in  concord; 
Waves  of  sea,  and  ocean  billows, 
Music  from  the  many  waters, 
Music  from  the  whole  creation, 
Oft  have  been  my  guide  and  master. 

The  Kalevala. 


Where  the    Forest 
Murmurs 

It  is  when  the  trees  are  leafless,  or  when 
the  last  withered  leaves  rustle  in  the  wintry 
air,  creeping  along  the  bare  boughs  like  tremu- 
lous mice,  or  fluttering  from  the  branches  like 
the  tired  and  starving  swallows  left  behind  in 
the  ebbing  tides  of  migration,  that  the  secret 
of  the  forest  is  most  likely  to  be  surprised. 
Mystery  is  always  there.  Silence  and  whis- 
pers, still  glooms,  sudden  radiances,  the  pas- 
sage of  wind  and  idle  airs,  all  these  inhabit  the 
forest  at  every  season.  But  it  is  not  in  their 
amplitude  that  great  woodlands  reveal  their 
secret  life.  In  the  first  vernal  weeks  the  wave 
of  green  creates  a  mist  or  shimmering  veil  of 
delicate  beauty,  through  which  the  missel- 
thrush  calls,  and  the  loud  screech  of  the  jay 
is  heard  like  a  savage  trumpet-cry.  The  woods 
then  are  full  of  a  virginal  beauty.  There  is 
intoxication  in  the  light  air.  The  cold  azure 
among  the  beech-spaces  or  where  the  tall  elms 
sway  in  the  east  wind,  is,  like  the  sea,  exquis- 
itely desirable,  exquisitely  unfamiliar,  inhu- 
man, of  another  world.  Then  follow  the  days 
when  the  violets  creep  through  the  mosses  at 

57 


Where  the  Forest  Murmurs 

the  base  of  great  oaks,  when  the  dust  of  snow- 
bloom  on  the  blackthorn  gives  way  to  the  trail- 
ing dog-rose,  when  myriads  of  bees  among  the 
chestnut-blossoms  fill  the  air  with  a  continu- 
ous drowsy  unrest,  when  the  cushat  calls 
from  the  heart  of  the  fir,  when  beyond  the 
green  billowy  roof  of  elm  and  hornbeam,  of 
oak  and  beech,  of  sycamore  and  lime  and 
tardy  ash,  the  mysterious  bells  of  the  South 
fall  through  leagues  of  warm  air,  as  the  un- 
seen cuckoo  sails  on  the  long  tides  of  the  wind. 
Then,  in  truth,  is  there  magic  in  the  woods. 
The  forest  is  alive  in  its  divine  youth.  Every 
bough  is  a  vast  plume  of  joy :  on  every  branch 
a  sunray  falls,  or  a  thrush  sways  in  song,  or 
the  gauzy  ephemeridae  dance  in  rising  and  fall- 
ing aerial  cones.  The  wind  moves  with  the 
feet  of  a  fawn,  with  the  wings  of  a  dove,  with 
the  passing  breath  of  the  white  owl  at  dusk. 
There  is  not  a  spot  where  is  neither  fragrance 
nor  beauty  nor  life.  From  the  tiniest  arch  of 
grass  and  twig  the  shrew-mouse  will  peep: 
above  the  shallowest  rainpool  the  dragon-fly 
will  hang  in  miraculous  suspense,  like  one  of 
the  faery  javelins  of  Midir  which  in  a  moment 
could  be  withheld  in  mid-flight  The  squirrel 
swings  from  branch  to  branch:  the  leveret 
shakes  the  dew  from  the  shadowed  grass :  the 
rabbits  flitter  to  and  fro  like  brown  beams  of 
58 


Where  the  Forest  Murmurs 

life:  the  robin,  the  chaffinch,  the  ousel,  call 
through  the  warm  green-glooms :  on  the  bram- 
ble-spray and  from  the  fern-garth  the  yellow- 
hammer  reiterates  his  gladsome  single  song: 
in  the  cloudless  blue  fields  of  the  sky  the 
swifts  weave  a  maze  of  shadow,  the  rooks  rise 
and  fall  in  giddy  ascents  and  descents  like 
black  galleys  surmounting  measureless  waves 
and  sinking  into  incalculable  gulfs. 

Then  the  forest  wearies  of  this  interminable 
exuberance,  this  daily  and  nightly  charm  of 
exultant  life.  It  desires  another  spell,  the 
enchantment  of  silence,  of  dreams.  One  day 
the  songs  cease:  the  nests  are  cold.  In  the 
lush  meadows  the  hare  sleeps,  the  corncrake 
calls.  By  the  brook  the  cattle  stand,  motion- 
less, or  with  long  tails  rhythmically  a-swing 
and  ears  a-twitch  above  the  moist  amber-violet 
dreamless  eyes.  The  columnar  trees  are  like 
phantom-smoke  of  secret  invisible  fires.  In 
the  green-glooms  of  the  forest  a  sigh  is  heard. 
A  troubled  and  furtive  moan  is  audible  in 
waste  indiscoverable  places.  The  thunder- 
time  is  come.  Now  in  the  woods  may  be  seen 
and  heard  and  felt  that  secret  presence  which 
in  the  spring  months  hid  behind  songs  and 
blossom,  and  later  clothed  itself  in  dense  veils 
of  green  and  all  the  magic  of  June.  Some- 
thing is  now  evident,  that  was  not  evident: 

59 


Where  the  Forest  Murmurs 

somewhat  is  entered  into  the  forest.  The 
leaves  know  it:  the  bracken  knows  it:  the 
secret  is  in  every  copse,  in  every  thicket,  is 
palpable  in  every  glade,  is  abroad  in  every 
shadow-thridden  avenue,  is  common  to  the 
spreading  bough  and  the  leaning  branch.  It  is 
not  a  rumour;  for  that  might  be  the  wind 
stealthily  lifting  his  long  wings  from  glade  to 
glade.  It  is  not  a  whisper;  for  that  might  be 
the  secret  passage  of  unquiet  airs,  furtive  her- 
alds of  the  unloosening  thunder.  It  is  not  a 
sigh ;  for  that  might  be  the  breath  of  branch 
and  bough,  of  fern-frond  and  grass,  obvious 
in  the  great  suspense.  It  is  an  ineffable  com- 
munication. It  comes  along  the  ways  of 
silence ;  along  the  ways  of  sound :  its  light  feet 
are  on  sunrays  and  on  shadows.  Like  dew, 
one  knows  not  whether  it  is  mysteriously 
gathered  from  below  or  secretly  come  from 
on  high :  simply  it  is  there,  above,  around,  be- 
neath. 

But  the  hush  is  dispelled  at  last.  The  long 
lances  of  the  rain  come  slanting  through  the 
branches ;  they  break,  as  against  invisible  bar- 
riers, and  fall  in  a  myriad  pattering  rush.  The 
hoarse  mutterings  and  sudden  crashing  roar 
of  the  thunder  possess  the  whole  forest.  There 
are  no  more  privacies,  the  secrecies  are  vio- 
lated. From  that  moment  the  woods  are  re- 
60 


Where  the  Forest  Murmurs 

newed,  and  with  the  renewal  the  secret  spirit 
that  dwells  within  them  withdraws,  is  not  to 
be  surprised,  is  inaudible,  indefinitely  recedes, 
is  become  remote,  obscure,  ineffable,  incom- 
municable. And  so,  through  veils  of  silence, 
and  hot  noons  and  husht  warm  midnights,  the 
long  weeks  of  July  and  August  go  by. 

In  the  woods  of  September  surely  the  for- 
est-soul may  be  surprised,  will  be  the  thought 
of  many.  In  that  month  the  sweet  incessant 
business  of  bird  and  beast  lessens  or  is  at  an 
end.  The  woodpecker  may  still  tap  at  the 
boles  of  gnarled  oaks  and  chestnuts ;  the  squir- 
rel is  more  than  ever  mischievously  gay;  on 
frosty  mornings,  when  the  gossamer  webs  are 
woven  across  every  bramble,  and  from  frond 
to  frond  of  the  bronze-stained  bracken,  the 
redbreast  tries  and  retries  the  poignant  new 
song  he  has  somehow  learned  since  first  he 
flaunted  his  bright  canticles  of  March  and 
April  from  the  meadow-hedge  or  the  sunned 
greenness  of  the  beech-covert.  But  there  is  a 
general  silence,  a  present  suspense,  while  the 
lime  yellows,  and  the  birch  takes  on  her  pale 
gold,  and  oak  and  sycamore  and  ash  slowly 
transmute  their  green  multitudes  into  a  new 
throng  clad  in  russet  or  dull  red  or  sunset- 
orange.  The  forest  is  full  of  loveliness:  in 
her  dusky  ways  faint  azure  mists  gather. 
61 


Where  the  Forest  Murmurs 

When  the  fawn  leaps  through  the  fern  it  is  no 
longer  soundlessly :  there  is  a  thin  dry  rustle, 
as  of  a  dove  brushing  swiftly  from  its  fastness 
in  an  ancient  yew.  One  may  pass  from  covert 
to  covert,  from  glade  to  glade,  and  find  the 
Secret  just  about  to  be  revealed  .  .  .  some- 
where beyond  the  group  of  birches,  beside  that 
oak  it  may  be,  just  behind  that  isolated  thorn. 
But  it  is  never  quite  overtaken.  It  is  as 
evasive  as  moonlight  in  the  hollows  of  waves. 
When  present,  it  is  already  gone.  When  ap- 
proached, it  has  the  unhasting  but  irretrievable 
withdrawal  of  the  shadow.  In  October  this 
bewildering  evasion  is  still  more  obvious,  be- 
cause the  continual  disclosure  is  more  near 
and  intimate.  When,  after  autumns  of  rain 
and  wind,  or  the  sudden  stealthy  advent  of 
nocturnal  frosts,  a  multitude  of  leaves  be- 
comes sere  and  wan,  and  then  the  leaves  strew 
every  billow  of  wind  like  clots  of  driven  foam, 
or  fall  in  still  wavering  flight  like  flakes  of 
windless  snow,  then,  it  is  surely  then  that  the 
great  surprise  is  imminent,  that  the  secret  and 
furtive  whisper  will  become  a  voice.  And  yet 
there  is  something  withheld.  In  November  it- 
self there  are  days,  weeks  even,  when  a  rich 
autumn  survives.  The  oaks  and  ashes  will 
often  keep  their  red  and  orange  till  after  St. 
Luke's  Peace;  in  sheltered  parts  of  the  forest 
62 


Where  the  Forest  Murmurs 

even  the  plane,  the  sycamore,  and  the  chestnut 
will  flaunt  their  thin  leopard-spotted  yellow 
bannerets.  I  remember  coming  upon  a  Span- 
ish chestnut  in  the  centre  of  a  group  of  all 
but  leafless  hornbeams.  There  seemed  to  be 
not  a  leaf  missing  from  that  splendid  congre- 
gation of  scarlet  and  amber  and  luminous  saf- 
fron. A  few  yards  on  and  even  the  hardy 
beeches  and  oaks  were  denuded  of  all  but  a 
scattered  and  defeated  company  of  brown  or 
withered  stragglers.  Why  should  that  single 
tree  have  kept  its  early  October  loveliness 
unchanged  through  those  weeks  of  rain  and 
wind  and  frosts  of  midnight  and  dawn  ?  There 
was  not  one  of  its  immediate  company  but 
was  in  desolate  ruin,  showing  the  bare  nests 
high  among  the  stark  boughs.  Through  the 
whole  forest  the  great  unloosening  had  gone. 
Even  the  oaks  in  hollow  places  which  had  kept 
greenness  like  a  continual  wave  suspended 
among  dull  masses  of  seaweed,  had  begun  to 
yield  to  the  vanishing  call  of  the  last  voices  of 
summer.  Day  by  day  their  scattered  tribes, 
then  whole  clans,  broke  up  the  tents  of  home 
and  departed  on  the  long  mysterious  exile. 
Yet  this  sentinel  at  the  Gate  of  the  North 
stood  undaunted,  splendid  in  warrior  array. 
The  same  instinct  that  impels  the  soul  from 
its  outward  home  into  the  incalculable  void 

63 


Where  the  Forest  Murmurs 

moves  the  leaf  with  the  imperious  desire  of  the 
grey  wind.  But  as,  in  human  life,  there  are 
some  who  retain  a  splendid  youth  far  into  the 
failing  regions  of  grey  hair  and  broken  years, 
so  in  the  forest  life  there  are  trees  which  seem 
able  to  defy  wind  and  rain  and  the  consuming 
feet  of  frost. 

The  most  subtle  charm  of  the  woods  in  No- 
vember is  in  those  blue  spaces  which  lie  at 
so  brief  a  distance  in  every  avenue  of  meeting 
boughs,  under  every  enclosing  branch.  This 
azure  mist  which  gathers  like  still  faint  smoke 
has  the  spell  of  silent  waters,  of  moonlight,  of 
the  pale  rose  of  serene  dawns.  It  has  a  light 
that  is  its  own,  as  unique  as  that  unnameable 
flame  which  burns  in  the  core  of  the  rainbow. 
The  earth  breathes  it;  it  is  the  breath  of  the 
fallen  leaves,  the  moss,  the  tangled  fern,  the 
undergrowth,  the  trees ;  it  is  the  breath  also  of 
the  windless  grey-blue  sky  that  leans  so  low. 
Surely,  also,  it  is  the  breath  of  that  other- 
world  of  which  our  songs  and  legends  are  so 
full.  It  has  that  mysteriousness,  that  spell, 
with  which  in  imagination  we  endow  the  noon 
silences,  the  eves  and  dawns  of  faery  twilights. 

Still,  the  silence  and  the  witchery  of  the 
forest  solitudes  in  November  are  of  the  spell 
of  autumn.     The  last  enchantment  of  mid- 
winter is  not  yet  come. 
64 


Where  the  Forest  Murmurs 

It  is  in  "  the  dead  months  "  that  the  forest 
permits  the  last  disguises  to  fall  away.  The 
forest-soul  is  no  longer  an  incommunicable 
mystery.  It  is  abroad.  It  is  a  communicable 
dream.  In  that  magnificent  nakedness  it 
knows  its  safety.  For  the  first  time  it  stands 
like  a  soul  that  has  mastered  all  material 
things  and  is  fearless  in  face  of  the  imma- 
terial things  which  are  the  only  life  of  the 
spirit. 

In  these  "  dead  months  "  of  December  and 
January  the  forest  lives  its  own  life.  It  is  not 
asleep  as  the  poets  feign.  Sleep  has  entered 
into  the  forest,  has  made  the  deep  silence  its 
habitation :  but  the  forest  itself  is  awake,  mys- 
terious, omnipresent,  a  creature  seen  at  last  in 
its  naked  majesty. 

One  says  lightly,  there  is  no  green  thing 
left.  That,  of  course,  is  a  mere  phrase  of 
relativity.  There  is  always  green  fern  some- 
where, even  in  the  garths  of  tangled  yellow- 
brown  bracken.  There  is  always  moss  some- 
where, hidden  among  the  great  serpentine 
roots  of  the  beeches.  The  ilex  will  keep  its 
dusty  green  through  the  harvest  winter:  the 
yew,  the  cypress,  the  holly,  have  no  need  of 
the  continual  invasion  of  the  winds  and  rains 
and  snows.  On  the  ash  and  elm  the  wood-ivy 
will  hang  her  spiked  leaves.  On  many  of  the 

65 


Where  the  Forest  Murmurs 

oaks  the  lovely  dull  green  of  the  mistletoe  will 
droop  in  graceful  clusters,  the  cream-white 
berries  glistening  like  innumerable  pleiads  of 
pearls.  But  these  are  lost  in  the  immense  uni- 
formity of  desolation.  They  are  accidents, 
interludes.  The  wilderness  knows  them,  as 
the  grey  wastes  of  tempestuous  seas  know  a 
Wave  here  and  there  that  lifts  a  huge  ram- 
part of  jade  crowned  with  snow,  or  the  long 
resiliency  of  gigantic  billows  which  reveal 
smooth  falling  precipices  of  azure.  The  waste 
itself  is  one  vast  desolation,  the  more  grey 
and  terrible  because  in  the  mass  invariable. 

To  go  through  those  winter-aisles  of  the 
forest  is  to  know  an  elation  foreign  to  the 
melancholy  of  November  or  to  the  first  fall  of 
the  leaf.  It  is  not  the  elation  of  certain  days 
in  February,  when  the  storm-cock  tosses  his 
song  among  the  wild  reefs  of  naked  bough  and 
branch.  It  is  not  the  elation  of  March,  when 
a  blueness  haunts  the  myriad  unburst  buds, 
and  the  throstle  builds  her  nest  and  calls  to 
the  South.  It  is  not  the  elation  of  April,  when 
the  virginal  green  is  like  exquisite  music  of  life 
in  miraculous  suspense,  nor  the  elation  of 
May,  when  the  wild  rose  moves  in  soft  flame 
upon  the  thickets  and  the  returned  magic  of 
the  cuckoo  is  an  intoxication,  nor  the  elation 
of  June,  when  the  merle  above  the  honey- 
66 


Where  the  Forest  Murmurs 

suckle  and  the  cushat  in  the  green-glooms  fill 
the  hot  noons  with  joy,  and  when  the  long 
fragrant  twilights  are  thrilled  with  the  pas- 
sion of  the  nightjar.  It  has  not  this  rapture 
nor  that  delight;  but  its  elation  is  an  ecstasy 
that  is  its  own.  It  is  then  that  one  under- 
stands as  one  has  never  understood.  It  is 
then  that  one  loves  the  mystery  one  has  but 
fugitively  divined.  Where  the  forest  mur- 
murs there  is  music:  ancient,  everlasting.  Go 
to  the  winter  woods :  listen  there,  look,  watch, 
and  "  the  dead  months  "  will  give  you  a  sub- 
tler secret  than  any  you  have  yet  found  in 
the  forest.  Then  there  is  always  one  possible 
superb  fortune.  You  may  see  the  woods  in 
snow.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  more 
beautiful  than  the  forest  clothed  to  its  very 
hollows  in  snow.  That  is  a  loveliness  to 
which  surely  none  can  be  insensitive.  It  is 
the  still  ecstasy  of  Nature,  wherein  every 
spray,  every  blade  of  grass,  every  spire  of 
reed,  every  intricacy  of  twig,  is  clad  with  radi- 
ance, and  myriad  form  is  renewed  in  contin- 
ual change  as  though  in  the  passionate  de- 
light of  the  white  Artificer.  It  is  beauty  so 
great  and  complex  that  the  imagination  is 
stilled  into  an  aching  hush.  There  is  the 
same  trouble  in  the  soul  as  before  the  starry 
hosts  of  a  winter  night. 
67 


THE   MOUNTAIN    CHARM 

A  famous  writer  of  the  eighteenth  century 
declared  that  to  a  civilised  mind  the  moun- 
tain solitude  was  naturally  abhorrent.  To  be 
impressed  was  unavoidable,  he  allowed;  to 
love  barrenness  and  the  wilderness,  to  take  de- 
light in  shadow  and  silence,  to  find  peace  in 
loneliness,  was  unnatural.  It  is  humanity 
that  redeems  nature,  he  added  in  effect.  The 
opinion  is  not  one  commonly  held  now,  or  not 
admitted.  But  many  hold  it  who  would  not 
admit  that  they  so  felt  or  thought.  I  have 
often  asked  summer  wanderers  if  they  have 
no  wish  to  see  the  solitudes  in  early  spring, 
when  the  ptarmigan's  wing  begins  to  brown ; 
in  November,  when  the  rust  of  the  bracken 
can  loom  through  the  hill-mist  like  the  bronze 
shields  of  the  sleeping  Fianna;  in  December, 
when  the  polar  wind  frays  the  peaks  into 
columns  of  smoke,  the  loose,  dry  snow  on  the 
northward  foreheads  of  ancient  summits ;  in 
January,  when  there  is  white  silence,  and  the 
blue  flitting  shadow  of  the  merlin's  wing;  in 
March,  when  in  the  south  glens  the  cries  of 
68 


The  Mountain  Charm 

lambs  are  a  lamenting  music,  and  the  scream 
of  the  eagle  is  like  a  faint  bugle-call  through 
two  thousand  feet  of  flowing  wind.  Few, 
however,  would  really  care  "  to  be  away  from 
home  "  in  those  months  when  snow  and  wind 
and  cloud  and  rain  are  the  continually  recur- 
rent notes  in  the  majestic  Mountain  Sym- 
phony. "  To  see  in  a  picture,  to  read  of  in  a 
story  or  poem,  that  is  delightful ;  but  .  .  . 
well,  one  needs  fine  weather  to  enjoy  the  hills 
and  the  moorlands."  That,  in  effect,  is  what 
I  have  commonly  heard,  or  discerned  in  the 
evasive  commonplace.  It  is  not  so  with  those 
who  love  the  mountain-lands  as  the  cushat 
loves  the  green  twilight  of  beech  or  cedar,  as 
the  mew  loves  troubled  waters  and  the  weav- 
ing of  foam.  I  remember,  a  year  or  so  ago, 
being  impressed  by  the  sincerity  of  a  low- 
lander  whom  I  met  on  the  road  among  the 
Perthshire  mountains,  in  a  region  where  the 
hills  frowned  and  there  was  silence  save  for 
the  hoarse  sea-murmur  of  pines  and  the  surge 
of  a  river  hidden  under  boughs  of  hornbeam 
and  leaning  birch.  I  forget  whence  he  had 
come,  but  it  was  from  a  place  where  the  low 
lineaments  of  the  fields  were  hardly  more  than 
long  wave-lines  on  a  calm  sea ;  the  only  heights 
were  heaps  of  "  shag  "  by  old  mines,  scattered 
columnar  chimney-stacks.  The  man  had  trod 
69 


The  Mountain  Charm 

far  afoot,  and  was  eager  for  work.  I  told  him 
to  go  on  toward  the  pass  for  about  a  mile, 
and  then  to  a  big  farm  he  would  see  to  his 
right,  and  ask  there,  and  probably  he  would 
get  work  and  good  pay.  Some  three  hours 
later  I  was  returning  by  the  same  road,  and 
again  met  the  wayfarer,  but  southward  set.  I 
asked  him  why  he  had  turned,  for  I  knew  la- 
bour was  wanted  at  the  farm,  and  the  man 
was  strong,  and  seemed  willing,  and  was  of 
decent  mien.  "  No,"  he  said,  "  he  had  not  got 
work  up  yonder."  I  knew  he  prevaricated, 
and  he  saw  it.  With  sudden  candour  he  add- 
ed :  "  It's  no  the  good  man  at  the  farm — nor 
the  work — nor  the  pay.  It's  just  this:  I'm 
fair  clemmed  at  the  sight  o'  yon  hills  ...  eh, 
but  they're  just  dreidful.  I  couldna'  abide 
them.  They're  na  human.  I've  felt  it  all 
along  since  I  cam  up  beyont  the  Ochils,  but 
it's  only  the  now  I've  kent  weel  I  couldna' 
live  here  amang  them."  "  Weel,  first  and 
foremost,"  he  added,  when  I  pressed  him  fur- 
ther, "  it's  the  silence.  It  fair  kills  me.  An' 
what's  more,  it  would  kill  me  if  I  stayed.  The 
wife  up  yonder  gave  me  a  sup  o'  milk  an'  a 
bannock,  an'  when  I  was  at  them  I  sat  on  a 
bench  an'  looked  about  me.  Naething  but 
hills,  hills,  hills :  hills  an'  black  gloom  an'  that 
awfu'  silence.  An'  there  was  a  burd — a 
70 


The  Mountain  Charm 

whaup  we  ca'  it  in  the  southlands — which  fair 
shook  my  mind.  It  went  lamentin'  like  a 
grave-bell,  an'  I  heard  it  long  after  it  was  out 
o'  sicht.  Then  there  wasn't  another  sound. 
Na,  na,  wark  or  no  wark,  I'm  awa'  south." 

And  so  the  wayfarer  set  foot  to  the  white 
road  again,  the  south  spelling  home  and  hu- 
man solace  to  him.  Those  dreary  coal-lands, 
where  the  green  grass  is  wan  and  the  thorn 
hedge  sombre,  and  any  wandering  water  illu- 
cid  and  defiled,  those  hideous  heaps  of  "shag," 
those  gaunt  mine-chimneys,  those  squalid  ham- 
lets in  a  populous  desolation — these  meant 
"  human  comfort "  to  him.  Or,  if  they  did 
not,  at  least  they  gave  him  somewhat  which 
the  mountain  silence  denied,  which  the  gath- 
ered hills  withheld,  which  the  moorland  soli- 
tudes overbore  and  refuted. 

An  extreme  case,  no  doubt.  But  the  deep 
disquietude  of  hill  silence,  of  the  mountain 
solitude,  is  felt  by  most  habitual  dwellers  in 
towns  and  thronged  communities.  There  is 
no  mountain  charm  for  these  except  the  charm 
of  release,  of  holiday,  of  novelty,  of  an  ima- 
gined delight,  of  contrast,  of  unwonted  air,  of 
unfamiliar  aspect.  One  of  the  popular  ex- 
cursion resorts  in  the  near  highlands  of 
Argyll  and  Dumbarton  is  Loch  Goil  Head.  A 
dweller  there  told  me  last  autumn  that  of  the 
71 


The  Mountain  Charm 

hundreds  who  land  every  week,  and  especially 
on  Saturdays  and  Fair  holidays,  and  gen- 
erally with  an  impatient  eagerness,  by  far  the 
greater  number  soon  tire  of  the  loneliness  of 
the  hills  a  brief  way  inland,  and  become  de- 
pressed, and  with  a  new  and  perhaps  perturb- 
ing eagerness  seek  again  the  house-clad  ways 
and  the  busy  shore;  and  seem  content,  an 
hour  or  two  before  their  steamer  sails,  to  sit 
where  they  can  see  the  movement  of  familiar 
life,  and  turn  their  back  upon  the  strangely 
oppressive  loneliness,  so  perturbingly  remote, 
so  paralysingly  silent. 

But  for  those  who  love  the  hills  as  com- 
rades, what  a  spell,  what  enchantment!  To 
wander  by  old  grassy  ways,  old  "  pack-road  " 
or  timeless  mountain  path ;  to  go  through  the 
bracken,  by  grey  boulders  tufted  with  green 
moss  and  yellow  lichen,  and  see  nothing  but 
great  rounded  shoulders  or  sudden  peaks 
overhead  or  beyond,  nothing  near  but  the  yel- 
low-hammer or  wandering  hawk  or  raven :  to 
feel  the  pliant  heather  underfoot,  and  smell 
the  wild  thyme,  and  watch  a  cloud  trail  a  pur- 
ple shadow  across  the  grey-blue  slope  rising 
like  a  gigantic  wave  from  a  sea  of  moors,  ris- 
ing and  falling  against  the  azure  walls,  but 
miraculously  suspended  there,  a  changeless 
vision,  an  eternal  phantom :  to  go  up  into  soli- 
72 


The  Mountain  Charm 

tary  passes,  where  even  the  June  sunshine  is 
hardly  come  ere  it  is  gone,  where  the  corbie 
screams,  and  the  stag  tramples  the  cranberry 
scrub  and  sniffs  the  wind  blowing  from  be- 
yond the  scarlet-fruited  rowan  leaning  from 
an  ancient  fallen  crag:  to  see  slope  sinking 
into  enveloping  slope,  and  height  uplifted 
to  uplifting  heights,  and  crags  gathered  con- 
fusedly to  serene  and  immutable  summits:  to 
come  at  last  upon  these  vast  foreheads,  and 
look  down  upon  the  lost  world  of  green  glens 
and  dusky  forests  and  many  waters,  to  look 
down,  as  it  were,  from  eternity  into  time  .  .  . 
this  indeed  is  to  know  the  mountain  charm, 
this  is  enchantment. 

For  the  mountain-lover  it  would  be  hard  to 
choose  any  pre-eminent  season.  The  highland 
beauty  appeals  through  each  of  the  months, 
and  from  day  to  day.  But,  for  all  the  glory 
of  purple  heather  and  dim  amethystine  slopes, 
it  is  perhaps  not  the  early  autumnal  mountain 
charm,  so  loved  of  every  one,  that  ranks  first 
in  one's  heart.  For  myself  I  think  midwinter, 
June,  and  the  St.  Martin's  Summer  of  late 
October,  or  early  November,  more  intimately 
compel  in  charm.  And  of  these,  I  think  June 
is  not  least.  In  midwinter  the  mountains  have 
their  most  ideal  beauty.  It  is  an  austere 
charm,  the  charm  of  whiteness  and  stillness. 

73 


The  Mountain  Charm 

It  is  akin  to  the  ineffable  charm  of  a  white 
flood  of  moonshine  on  a  stilled  ocean;  but  it 
has  that  which  the  waters  do  not  have,  the  im- 
mobility of  trance.  There  is  nothing  more 
wonderful  in  dream-beauty  than  vast  and 
snow-bound  mountain-solitudes  in  the  dead  of 
winter.  That  beauty  becomes  poignant  when 
sea-fjords  or  inland  waters  lie  at  the  sheer 
bases  of  the  white  hills,  and  in  the  luminous 
green  or  shadowy  blue  the  heights  are  mir- 
rored, so  that  one  indeed  stands  between  two 
worlds,  unknowing  the  phantom  from  the 
real.  There  is  a  dream-beauty  also  in  that 
lovely  suspense  between  the  last  wild  winds  of 
the  equinox  and  "  the  snow-bringer,"  that 
period  of  hushed  farewell  which  we  call  St. 
Martin's  Summer.  The  glory  of  the  heather 
is  gone,  but  the  gold  and  bronze  of  the  brack- 
en take  on  an  equal  beauty.  The  birch  hangs 
her  still  tresses  of  pale  gold,  "  that  beautiful 
wild  woman  of  the  hills,"  as  a  Gaelic  poet 
says.  The  red  and  russet  of  rowan  and  bram- 
ble, the  rich  hues  of  the  haw,  the  sloe,  the 
briony,  all  the  golds  and  browns  and  delicate 
ambers  of  entranced  autumn  are  woven  in  a 
magic  web.  In  the  mornings,  the  gossamer 
hangs  on  every  bush  of  gorse  and  juniper. 
Through  the  serene  air,  exquisitely  fresh  with 
the  light  frosts  which  from  dayset  to  dawn 

74 


The  Mountain  Charm 

have  fallen  idly,  rings  the  sweet  and  thrilling 
song  of  the  robin,  that  music  of  autumn  so 
poignant,  so  infinitely  winsome.  In  what 
lovely  words  our  Elizabethan  Chapman  wrote 
of  the  robin,  of  which  we  also  of  the  North 
speak  lovingly  as  "  St.  Colum's  Friend,"  "  St. 
Bride's  Sweetheart,"  and  the  "  little  brother 
of  Christ " : 

" the  bird  that  loves  humans  best, 

That  hath  the  bugle  eyes  and  ruddy  breast, 
And  is  the  yellow  autumn's  nightingale." 

But  it  is  in  June,  I  think,  that  the  mountain 
charm  is  most  intoxicating.  The  airs  are 
lightsome.  The  hill-mists  are  seldom  heavy, 
and  only  on  south-wind  mornings  do  the  love- 
ly grey-white  vapours  linger  among  the  climb- 
ing corries  and  overhanging  scarps.  Many  of 
the  slopes  are  blue  as  a  winter  sky,  palely 
blue,  aerially  delicate,  from  the  incalculable 
myriad  host  of  the  bluebells.  The  green  of 
the  bracken  is  more  wonderful  than  at  any 
other  time.  When  the  wind  plays  upon  it  the 
rise  and  fall  is  as  the  breathing  of  the  green 
seas  among  the  caverns  of  Mingulay  or  among 
the  savage  rock-pools  of  the  Seven  Hunters 
or  where  the  Summer  Isles  lie  in  the  churn  of 
the  Atlantic  tides.  Everything  is  alive  in  joy. 

75 


The  Mountain  Charm 

The  young  broods  exult.  The  air  is  vibrant 
with  the  eddies  of  many  wings,  great  and 
small.  The  shadow-grass  sways  with  the  pas- 
sage of  the  shrewmouse  or  the  wing's-breath 
of  the  darting  swallow.  The  stillest  pool 
quivers,  for  among  the  shadows  of  breathless 
reeds  the  phantom  javelin  of  the  dragon-fly 
whirls  for  a  second  from  silence  to  silence. 
In  the  morning  the  far  lamentation  of  the 
flocks  on  the  summer  shielings  falls  like  the 
sound  of  bells  across  water.  The  curlew  and 
the  plover  are  not  spirits  of  desolation,  but 
blithe  children  of  the  wilderness.  As  the  af- 
ternoon swims  in  blue  haze  and  floating  gold 
the  drowsy  call  of  the  moorcock  stirs  the 
heather-sea.  The  snorting  of  trampling  deer 
may  be  heard.  The  land-rail  sweeps  the  dew 
from  the  tall  grass  and  sends  her  harsh  but 
summer-sweet  cry  in  long  monotonous  echoes, 
till  the  air  rings  with  the  resonant  krek-crake. 
And  that  sudden  break  in  the  silences  of  the 
dusk,  when  —  beyond  the  blossoming  elder, 
or  the  tangle  of  wild  roses  where  the  white 
moths  rise  and  fall  in  fluttering  ecstasy,  or, 
yonder,  by  the  black-green  juniper  on  the 
moorland  —  the  low  whirring  note  of  the 
nightjar  vibrates  in  a  continual  passionate 
iterance!  There,  in  truth,  we  have  the  pas- 
sionate whisper  of  the  heart  of  June,  that 
76 


The  Mountain  Charm 

most   wonderful,   that  most  thrilling  of  the 
voices  of  summer. 

It  is  in  June,  too,  that  one  mountain  charm 
in  particular  may  be  known  with  rapt  delight. 
It  is  when  one  can  approach  mountains  whose 
outlying  flanks  and  bases  are  green  hills.  The 
bright  green  of  these  under-slopes,  these 
swelling  heights  and  rolling  uplands,  is  never 
more  vivid.  Near,  one  wonders  why  grasses 
so  thick  with  white  daisy  and  red  sorrel  and 
purple  orchis  and  blue  harebell  can  be  green 
at  all!  But  that  wonderful  sea-green  of  the 
hills  near  at  hand  gives  way  soon  to  the  still 
more  wonderful  blue  as  the  heights  recede. 
The  glens  and  wooded  valleys  grow  paler. 
Rock  and  tree  and  heather  blend.  "  What 
colour  is  that?"  I  asked  a  shepherd  once. 
"  The  blueness  of  blueness,"  he  answered,  in 
Gaelic.  It  is  so.  It  is  not  blue  one  sees,  but 
the  bloom  of  blue;  as  on  a  wild  plum,  it 
is  not  the  purple  skin  we  note,  but  the 
amethyst  bloom  of  purple  which  lies  upon 
it.  It  is  beauty,  with  its  own  loveliness  upon 
it  like  a  breath.  Then  the  blue  deepens, 
or  greys,  as  the  hour  and  the  light  compel. 
The  most  rare  and  subtle  loveliness  is  when 
the  grey  silhouette  of  the  mountain-ridge, 
serrated  line,  or  freaked  and  tormented  peaks, 
or  vast  unbroken  amplitude,  sinks  into  the 

77 


The  Mountain  Charm 

sudden    deep    clearness    of    the    enveloping 
sky. 

Even  in  June,  however,  the  mountain  charm 
is  not  to  be  sought,  as  in  a  last  sanctuary,  on 
the  summits  of  the  hills.  I  believe  that  to  be 
a  delusion,  a  confusion,  which  asserts  the  su- 
preme beauty  of  the  views  from  mountain 
summits.  I  have  climbed  many  hills  and  not 
a  few  mountains,  and,  except  in  one  or  two 
instances  (as  Hecla  in  the  Hebrides),  never 
without  recognition  that,  in  beauty,  one  does 
not  gain,  but  loses.  There  are  no  heights  in 
Scotland  more  often  climbed  by  the  holiday 
mountaineer  than  Ben  Nevis  in  Argyll  and 
Goat  Fell  in  the  Isle  of  Arran.  Neither,  in 
beauty  or  grandeur  of  view,  repays  the  ascent. 
Goat  Fell  is  a  hundred  times  lovelier  seen 
from  the  shores  or  glens  of  its  own  lower 
slopes,  or  from  a  spur  of  the  Eastern  Caisteall 
Abhaill :  the  boatmen  on  the  waters  of  Lome, 
the  shepherd  on  the  hills  of  Morven,  the  way- 
farer in  the  wilds  of  Appin,  they  know  the 
beauty  of  "  the  Sacred  Hill "  as  none  knows 
it  who  thinks  he  has  surprised  the  secret  on 
the  vast  brows  overhanging  the  inchoate  wil- 
derness. At  its  best,  we  look  through  a 
phantasmal  appearance  upon  a  phantasmal 
world,  and  any  artist  will  tell  us  that  the  dis- 
appointment is  because  every  object  is  seen, 
78 


The  Mountain  Charm 

in  its  high  light,  none  in  its  shadowed  portion ; 
that  the  direct  sunlight  being  over  all  is  re- 
flected back  to  us  from  every  surface;  that 
the  downward  vision  means  a  monotony  of 
light  and  a  monotony  of  colour. 

The  supreme  charm  of  the  mountain-lands 
in  June  is  their  investiture  with  the  loveliest 
blue  air  that  the  year  knows,  and  the  entrance- 
ment  of  summer  cloud.  Small  feathery  cir- 
rus or  salmon-pink  and  snow-white  cumulus 
emerging  behind  the  shoulder  of  a  mountain 
or  drifting  above  the  vast  silent  brows  have 
an  infinite  beauty.  We  should  be  cloud-climb- 
ers rather  than  mere  mountain-climbers;  we 
should  climb  to  see  the  heights  recede  in  con- 
tinual fold  of  loveliness,  and  the  clouds  lift 
their  trailing  purple  shadows  and  sail  slowly 
or  hang  motionless  beyond  the  eternal  but- 
tresses. And  it  is  but  an  added  poignancy  to 
the  sense  of  infinite  beauty  to  know  that  this 
word  "  eternal "  is,  even  for  those  ancient 
"  changeless  "  hills,  but  the  idlest  hyperbole — 
as  though  one  were  to  call  the  breaking  wave 
everlasting,  o*r  the  blowing  seed  of  the  mea- 
dows as  timeless  as  the  wind.  There  is  not  a 
vast  and  lonely  mountain  that  has  not  a  fallen 
comrade  among  the  low  undulating  ridges  of 
the  continual  lowland;  not  one  of  these  that 
has  not  in  turn  to  feed  the  white  dust  of  the 

79 


The  Mountain  Charm 

plain  or  the  sea-gathered  sand  of  ancient  or 
as  yet  unformed  shores.  For  the  hills  pass, 
even  as  we  or  the  green  leaf  become  sere,  or 
the  fruit  that  ripens  to  its  fall ;  though  we 
speak  of  them  as  everlasting,  and  find  the 
subtlest  spell  of  their  incalculable  charm  in 
the  overwhelming  sense  of  their  imagined 
eternity. 


80 


THE   CLANS   OF   THE   GRASS 

Of  all  the  miracles  of  the  green  world 
none  surpasses  that  of  the  grass.  It  has  many 
names,  many  raiments  even,  but  it  is  always 
that  wonderful  thing  which  the  poets  of  all 
time  have  delighted  in  calling  the  green  hair 
of  earth.  "  Soft  green  hair  of  the  rocks," 
says  a  Breton  poet.  Another  Celtic  poet  has 
used  the  word  alike  for  the  mosses  which 
clothe  the  talons  of  old  trees  and  for  the  for- 
ests themselves.  No  fantastic  hyperbole  this : 
from  a  great  height  forests  of  pine  and  oak 
seem  like  reaches  of  sombre  grass.  To  the 
shrewmouse  the  tall  grasses  of  June  are  green 
woods,  and  the  slim  stems  of  the  reddening 
sorrels  are  groves  of  pine-trees.  I  remember 
having  read  somewhere  of  a  lovely  name 
given  to  the  grass  by  the  Arabs  of  the  des- 
ert ...  "the  Bride  of  Mahomet."  What 
lovelier  and  more  gracious  thing  in  the  world, 
in  their  eyes,  than  this  soft  cool  greenness  of 
the  oasis,  this  emerald  carpet  below  the  green 
shadowy  roof  of  waving  palms ;  and  as  of  ail 
women  in  the  world  there  could  be  but  one, 
81 


The  Clans  of  the  Grass 

according  to  the  old  legend,  worthy  to  be  the 
supreme  bride  of  the  Prophet,  what  poetic 
name  for  her  so  fitting  as  this  exquisite  ap- 
parition of  the  desert,  so  beautiful,  so  ever- 
new  in  itself,  so  welcome  for  its  association 
with  sweet  waters  and  shade  and  coolness.  A 
Gaelic  poet  calls  the  grass  the  Gift  of  Christ, 
literally  slender-greenness  of  Christ  (uain- 
cachd-caol  Chriosde),  and  another  has  writ- 
ten of  how  it  came  to  be  called  Green-Peace 
— both  from  an  old  tale  (one  of  the  many 
ebbed,  forgotten  tales  of  the  isles)  that,  when 
God  had  created  the  world, Christ  said :  "Sure- 
ly one  thing  yet  lacks,  my  Father:  soft  green- 
ness for  the  barren  mountain,  soft  greenness 
for  rocks  and  cliffs,  soft  greenness  for  stony 
places  and  the  wilderness,  soft  greenness  for 
the  airidhs  of  the  poor."  Whereupon  God 
said,  "Let  thy  tenderness  be  upon  these  things, 
O  my  Son,  and  thy  peace  be  upon  them,  and 
let  the  green  grass  be  the  colour  of  peace  and 
of  home  " — and  thereafter,  says  the  taleteller, 
the  Eternal  Father  turned  to  the  Holy  Spirit 
and  said  of  the  Son  that  from  that  hour  He 
should  be  named  the  Prince  of  Peace,  Prionn- 
sa  na  Sioth-cainnt  canar  ris, 

Grass  is  as  universal  as  dew,  as  common- 
place as  light.     That  which  feels  the  seawind 
in  the  loneliest   Hebrides  is  brother  to  that 
82 


The  Clans  of  the  Grass 

which  lies  on  Himalaya  or  is  fanned  by  the 
hot  airs  of  Asian  valleys.  That  which  covers 
a  grey  scarp  in  Iceland  is  the  same  as  that  on 
Adam's  Peak  in  Ceylon,  and  that  which  in 
myriad  is  the  priarie  of  the  north  is  in  myr- 
iad the  pampas  of  the  south;  that  whose 
multitude  covers  the  Gaelic  hills  is  that  whose 
multitude  covers  the  Russian  steppes.  It  is 
of  all  the  signature  of  Nature  that  which  to 
us  is  nearest  and  homeliest.  The  green  grass 
after  long  voyaging,  the  grass  of  home-valley 
or  hillside  after  long  wayfaring,  the  green 
grass  of  the  Psalmist  to  souls  athirst  and 
weary,  the  grass  of  El  Dorado  to  the  vision- 
ary seeking  the  gold  of  the  spirit,  the  grass 
of  the  Fortunate  Isles,  of  the  Hills  of  Youth, 
to  the  poets  and  dreamers  of  all  lands  and 
times  .  .  .  everywhere  and  ever  has  this  om- 
nipresent herb  that  withereth  and  yet  is  con- 
tinually reborn,  been  the  eternal  symbol  of 
that  which  passes  like  a  dream,  the  symbol  of 
everlasting  illusion,  and  yet,  too,  is  the  symbol 
of  resurrection,  of  all  the  old  divine  illusion 
essayed  anew,  of  the  inexplicable  mystery  of 
life  recovered  and  everlastingly  perpetrated. 

When  we  speak  of  grass  we  generally  mean 
one  thing,  the  small  slim  green  herb  which 
carpets  the  familiar  earth.  But  there  are 
many  grasses,  from  the  smooth  close-set  herb 

83 


The  Clans  of  the  Grass 

of  our  lawns  or  the  sheep-nibbled  downy 
greenness  of  mountain-pastures,  to  the  forest- 
like  groves  which  sway  in  the  torrid  winds  of 
the  south.  Of  these  alone  much  might  be 
written.  I  prefer,  however,  that  name  I  have 
placed  at  the  head  of  this  article — taken,  if  I 
remember  rightly,  from  a  poem  by  the  Gaelic 
mountain-poet,  Duncan  Ban  Macintyre — and 
used  in  the  sense  of  the  original.  In  this 
sense,  the  Clans  of  the  Grass  are  not  only  the 
grasses  of  the  pasture,  the  sand-dune,  the 
windy  down,  not  only  the  sorrel-red  meadow- 
grass  or  the  delicate  quaking-grass,  but  all  the 
humbler  greengrowth  which  covers  the  face 
of  the  earth.  In  this  company  are  the  bee- 
loved  clover,  the  trailing  vetch,  the  yellow-sea 
clover  and  the  sea-pink ;  the  vast  tribe  of  the 
charlock  or  wild  mustard  which  on  showery 
days  sometimes  lights  up  field  or  hill-meadow 
with  yellow  flame  so  translucent  that  one 
thinks  a  sudden  radiant  sunflood  burns  and 
abides  there.  In  it  too  are  all  the  slim  peo- 
ples of  the  reed  and  rush,  by  streams  and 
pools  and  lochans :  of  the  yellow  iris  by  the 
sea-loch  and  the  tall  flag  by  the  mountain- 
tarn:  the  grey  thistle,  the  sweet-gale,  and  all 
the  tribe  of  the  bog-cotton  or  canna  (ceann- 
ban-a-mhonaidh  the  white  head  of  the  hill- 
side, as  we  call  it  in  Gaelic),  those  lovers 

84 


The  Clans  of  the  Grass 

of  the  wilderness  and  boggy  places.  With 
these  is  the  bind  weed  that  with  the  salt  bent 
holds  the  loose  shores.  With  these  are  all 
the  shadow-loving  clans  of  the  fern,  from 
the  bracken,  whose  April-glow  lightens  the 
glens  and  whose  autumnal  brown  and  dull 
gold  make  the  hillsides  so  resplendent,  to 
the  stone  wort  on  the  dykes,  the  lady-fern  in 
the  birch-woods,  the  maidenhair  by  springs 
and  falls,  the  hart's-tongue  in  caverns,  the 
Royal  fern  whose  broad  fronds  are  the  pride 
of  heather-waste  and  morass.  The  mosses, 
too,  are  from  this  vast  clan  of  the  earth-set, 
from  the  velvet-soft  edging  of  the  oak-roots 
or  the  wandering  greenness  of  the  swamp  to 
the  ashy  tresses  which  hang  on  spruce  or 
hemlock  or  the  grey  fringes  of  the  rocks  by 
northern  seas.  And  with  them  are  the  lich- 
ens, that  beautiful  secret  company  who  love 
the  shadow-side  of  trees,  and  make  stones 
like  flowers,  and  transmute  the  barrenness  of 
rock  and  boulder  with  dyes  of  pale  gold  and 
blazing  orange  and  umber,  rich  as  the  brown 
hearts  of  tarns,  and  pearl-grey  delicate  as  a 
cushat's  breast,  and  saffron  as  yellow-green  as 
the  sunset-light  after  the  clearing  of  rains. 
To  all  these,  indeed,  should  be  added  the 
greater  grasses  which  we  know  as  wheat  and 
oats,  as  rye  and  maize.  Thus  do  we  come  to 

85 


The  Clans  of  the  Grass 

"  the  waving  hair  of  the  ever-wheeling  earth," 
and  behold  the  unresting  mother  as  in  a  vi- 
sion, but  with  the  winds  of  space  for  ever 
blowing  her  waving  tresses  in  a  green  glad- 
ness, or  in  a  shimmer  of  summer-gold,  or  in 
the  bronze  splendour  of  the  columnal  passage. 
But  the  grasses  proper,  alone:  the  green 
grass  itself — what  a  delight  to  think  of  these, 
even  if  the  meaning  of  the  title  of  this  paper 
be  inclusive  of  them  and  them  only.  What 
variety,  here,  moreover.  The  first  spring- 
grass,  how  welcome  it  is.  What  lovely  deli- 
cacy of  green.  It  is  difficult  anywhere  to 
match  it.  Perhaps  the  first  greening  of  the 
sallow,  that  lovely  hair  hung  over  ponds  and 
streams  or  where  sloping  lawns  catch  the 
wandering  airs  of  the  south :  or  the  pale 
green-flame  of  the  awakening  larch :  or  the 
tips  of  bursting  hawthorn  in  the  hedgerows 
— perhaps,  these  are  nearest  to  it  in  hue. 
But  with  noonlight  it  may  become  almost  the 
pale-yellow  of  sheltered  primroses,  or  yellow- 
green  as  the  cowslip  before  its  faint  gold  is 
minted,  and  in  the  mellowing  afternoon  it 
may  often  be  seen  as  illuminated  (as  with 
hidden  delicate  flame)  as  the  pale-emerald 
candelabra  of  the  hellebore.  How  different 
is  the  luxuriant  grass  in  hollows  and  combes 
and  along  watered  meadows  in  June,  often 
86 


The  Clans  of  the  Grass 

dark  as  pine-greens  or  as  sunlit  jade,  and  in 
shadowy  places  or  a  twilight  sometimes  as 
lustrously  sombre-grey  as  the  obsidian,  that 
precious  stone  of  the  Caucasus  now  no  long- 
er a  rarity  among  us.  How  swiftly,  too, 
that  changes  after  the  heats  of  midsummer, 
often  being  threaded  with  grey  light  before 
the  dog-days  are  spent.  Moreover,  at  any 
season  there  is  a  difference  between  down- 
grass  and  mountain-grass,  between  sea-grass 
and  valley-grass,  between  moor-grass  and 
wood-grass.  It  may  be  slight,  and  not  in  kind 
but  only  in  shadowy  dissemblances  of  texture 
and  hue;  still  one  may  note  the  difference. 
More  obvious,  of  course,  is  the  difference 
between,  say,  April-grass  and  the  same  grass 
when  May  or  June  suffuses  it  with  the  red 
glow  of  the  seeding  sorrel,  or  between  the 
sea-grass  that  has  had  the  salt  wind  upon  it 
since  its  birth,  the  bent  as  it  is  commonly 
called,  and  its  brother  among  the  scarps  and 
cliff-edges  of  the  hills,  so  marvellously  soft 
and  hairlike  for  all  that  it  is  not  long  since 
the  snows  have  lifted  or  since  sleet  and  hail 
have  harried  the  worn  faces  of  boulder  and 
crag.  Or,  again,  between  even  the  most  deli- 
cate wantonness  of  the  seeding  hay,  fragrant 
with  white  clover  and  purple  vetch,  and  the 
light  aerial  breathfulness,  frail  as  thistledown, 

87 


The  Clans  of  the  Grass 

of  the  quaking-grass.  How  it  loves  the  wood's- 
edge,  this  last,  or  sheltered  places  by  the 
hedgerows,  the  dream-hollows  of  sloping  pas- 
tures, meadow-edges  where  the  cow-parsley 
whitens  like  foam  and  the  meadow-sweet 
floats  creamwhite  and  the  white  campions 
hang  in  clotted  froth  over  the  long  surge  of 
daisies :  or,  where,  like  sloops  of  the  nautilus 
on  tropic  seas,  curved  blossoms  of  the  white 
wild-rose  motionlessly  suspend  or  idly  drift, 
hardly  less  frail,  less  wantonly  errant  than 
the  white  bloomy  dust  of  the  dandelion. 

Caran-cheann-air-chrith,  "  little  friend  of 
the  quaking  -  grass,"  is  one  of  the  Gaelic 
names  of  the  wagtail,  perhaps  given  to  it 
because  of  a  like  tremulous  movement,  as 
though  invisible  wings  of  gossamer  shook 
ever  in  a  secret  wind.  Or  given  to  it,  per- 
haps, because  of  a  legend  which  puts  the 
common  grass,  the  quaking-grass,  the  wag- 
tail, the  cuckoo,  the  aspen,  and  the  lichen  in 
one  traditional  company.  In  the  Garden  of 
Gethsemane,  so  runs  the  Gaelic  folk-tale  as 
I  heard  it  as  a  child,  all  Nature  suddenly 
knew  the  Sorrow  of  Christ.  The  dew  whis- 
pered it :  it  was  communicated  in  the  dusk :  in 
pale  gold  and  shaken  silver  it  stole  from  moon 
and  star  into  the  green  darkness  of  cypress 
and  cedar.  The  grass-blades  put  all  their 
88 


The  Clans  of  the  Grass 

green  lips  into  one  breath,  and  sighed  Peace, 
Brother!  Christ  smiled  in  His  sorrow,  and 
said,  Peace  to  you  for  ever.  But  here  and 
there  among  the  grasses,  as  here  and  there 
among  the  trees,  and  as  here  and  there  among 
the  husht  birds,  were  those  who  doubted,  say- 
ing, "  It  is  but  a  man  who  lies  here.  His  sor- 
row is  not  our  sorrow."  Christ  looked  at 
them,  and  they  were  shaken  with  the  grief  of 
all  grief  and  the  sorrow  of  all  sorrow.  And 
that  is  why  to  this  day  the  quaking-grass  and 
the  aspen  are  for  ever  a-tremble,  and  why  the 
wagtail  has  no  rest  but  quivers  along  the  earth 
like  a  dancing  shadow.  But  to  those  mosses 
of  Gethsemane  which  did  not  give  out  the 
sympathy  of  their  kin  among  the  roots  of  ce- 
dar and  oak,  and  to  the  cuckoo  who  rang 
from  her  nest  a  low  chime  of  All's  well!  All's 
well!  Christ's  sorrowful  eyes  when  He  rose 
at  dawn  could  not  be  endured.  So  the  cuckoo 
rose  and  flew  away  across  the  Hill  of  Cal- 
vary, ringing  through  the  morning  twilight 
the  bells  of  sorrow,  and  from  that  day  was 
homeless  and  without  power  anywhere  to 
make  a  home  of  her  own.  As  for  the  mosses 
that  had  refused  love,  they  wandered  away  to 
desolate  places  and  hung  out  forlorn  flags  of 
orange-red  and  pale-yellow  and  faded-silver 
along  the  grey  encampments  of  the  rocks. 
89 


The  Clans  of  the  Grass 

Often  I  have  thought  of  this  when  lying  in 
the  mountain-grass  beside  one  of  those  an- 
cient lichened  boulders  which  strew  our  hill- 
sides. The  lichen  is  the  least  of  the  grasses 
• — and  let  us  use  the  term  in  its  poetic  sense 
— but  how  lovely  a  thing  it  is;  almost  as 
lovely  in  endless  variety  of  form  as  the  frost- 
flower.  In  a  sense  they  are  strangely  akin, 
these  two;  the  frost-flower,  which  is  the 
breath  of  Beauty  itself,  lasting  a  briefer  hour 
than  the  noontide  dew,  and  the  moss-flower 
which  the  barren  rock  sustains  through  all 
the  changing  seasons. 

Who  is  that  Artificer  who  has  subtly  and 
diversely  hidden  the  secret  of  rhythm  in  the 
lichen  of  the  rock  and  in  the  rock's  heart 
itself;  in  the  frost-flower,  so  perfect  in  beauty 
that  a  sunbeam  breathes  it  away ;  in  the  fall- 
ing star,  a  snowflake  in  the  abyss,  yet  with  the 
miraculous  curve  in  flight  which  the  wave  has 
had,  which  the  bent  poplar  has  had,  which 
the  rainbow  has  had,  since  the  world  began? 
The  grey  immemorial  stone  and  the  vanishing 
meteor  are  one.  Both  are  the  offspring  of 
the  Eternal  Passion,  and  it  may  be  that  be- 
tween the  aeon  of  the  one  and  the  less  than  a 
minute  of  the  other  there  shall  not,  in  the 
divine  reckoning,  be  more  than  the  throb  of 
a  pulse.  For  who  of  us  can  measure  even 
90 


The  Clans  of  the  Grass 

Time,  that  the  gnat  measures  as  well  as  we, 
or  the  eagle,  or  the  ancient  yew,  or  the  moun- 
tain whose  granite  brows  are  white  with  ages 
— much  less  Eternity,  wherein  Time  is  but  a 
vanishing  pulse? 


THE   TIDES 

I  remember  that  one  of  the  most  strange 
and  perturbing  pleasures  of  my  childhood 
was  in  watching,  from  a  grassy  height,  the 
stealthy  motions  of  the  tides.  The  fascina- 
tion never  waned,  nor  has  it  yet  waned:  to- 
day, as  then,  I  know  at  times  the  old  thrill, 
almost  the  old  fear,  when  through  a  white 
calm  or  up  some  sea-loch  I  watch  those  dark 
involutions,  in  sudden  twists  and  long  serpen- 
tine curves,  as  the  eddies  of  the  tide  force 
their  mysterious  way.  For  one  thing  my 
childish  imagination  was  profoundly  im- 
pressed by  the  words  of  an  old  islander  whom 
I  had  asked  where  the  tides  came  from  and 
what  they  were  and  had  they  names.  We 
were  on  the  steep  slope  of  a  small  grassy  hill, 
and  overlooked  the  eastern  end  of  an  island 
where  the  troubled  waters  of  a  caoileas  or 
strait  to  the  south  met  the  vast  placid  reach 
of  ocean  on  the  north.  Through  the  lustrous 
green  of  the  Sound,  fleckt  with  long  mauve 
shadows  or  clouded  here  and  there  with  great 
splatches  of  purple-brown;  and,  again,  to  the 
92 


The  Tides 

left  through  the  near  calm  heave  of  deep 
water  so  blue  that  as  a  child  I  could  not  un- 
derstand why  the  shells  which  were  washed 
up  from  it  were  not  blue  also :  to  right  and  to 
left  I  saw  the  sudden  furtive  motions  of  the 
flowing  tide.  I  had  often  watched  the  blind- 
worm  move  thus  through  the  coarse  sea- 
grasses,  and  again  and  again  had  seen  the 
adder  dart  through  the  bracken  like  one  of 
those  terrible  living  arrows  of  Faerie  of 
which  I  had  heard :  often,  too,  I  had  followed 
the  shadow-swift  underwave  glide  of  the 
hunting  seal :  and  once,  in  a  deep  brown  pool 
in  Morven,  when  I  was  looking  with  trem- 
bling hope  for  the  floating  hair  or  dim  white 
face  of  a  kelpie,  I  had  seen  an  otter  rise  from 
the  depths  .  .  .  rise  like  a  fantastic  elfin  face 
and  half -human  figure  in  a  dream  .  .  .  make 
a  soundless  sinuous  plunge  and  in  less  than 
a  moment  vanish  utterly,  still  without  sound 
or  the  least  ruffling  of  the  brown  depths.  So, 
it  was  natural  that  I  should  associate  those 
mysterious  gliding  things  of  the  sea  with 
these  sinuous  things  of  the  grass  and  heather 
and  the  shadowy  pool.  They,  too,  I  thought, 
were  furtive  and  sinister.  There  was  some- 
thing as  of  the  same  evil  enchantment  in  their 
abrupt  and  inexplicable  appearing  and  in  their 
soundless  departures.  Thus  it  was  I  felt  na 

93 


The  Tides 

surprise  when  my  old  island- friend  Seumais 
remarked  to  me: 

"  They  are  creatures  of  the  sea." 

"  What  are  they,  Seumais  ? "  I  urged ; 
"  are  they  great  eels,  or  adders,  or  what  ? 
Can  they  put  death  on  a  swimmer?  Have 
you  ever  caught  one?  Have " 

"  Ay,  for  sure  they  might  put  death  on  a 
swimmer:  and  by  the  same  token  I  will  be 
remembering  that  Ruaridh  Stewart,  the  Ap- 
pin  poet,  has  a  rann  about  them  as  the 
Hounds  of  the  Sea." 

"  And  have  they  names  ?  " 

"  For  sure,  that:  Luath  (Swift)  and  Gorm- 
Dhu  (Blue -Black),  Luath  -  Donn  (Fleet  - 
brown-one)  and  Braco  (Speckled),  Run-fo- 
tuinne  (Underwave  Secret)  and  Cu-Bhais 
(Hound  of  Death),  and  others  that  I  will  be 
forgetting." 

"  But,  Seumais,"  I  persisted,  "  are  they 
male-seafolk  and  women-seafolk  like  the  seals, 
and  have  they  little  ones,  and  where  do 
they  go,  and  where  do  the  big  tides  come 
from  ?  " 

"Well,  well,  I  will  not  be  knowing  that, 
though,  for  sure,  it  is  likely.  But  as  to  where 
they  come  from,  and  where  they  go,  there 
will  be  none  in  all  the  world  who  can  tell 
that;  no,  not  one.  They  will  be  just  like  the 

94 


The  Tides 

wind,  that  no  one  knows  the  road  of,  behind 
or  before.  Ay,  the  sea's  just  like  the  grey 
road:  the  green  road  an'  the  grey  road,  they 
show  no  tracks.  The  wind  an'  the  tides, 
they  just  come  an*  they  just  go.  "  Blind 
as  the  wind,"  "  blind  as  the  tide "...  ay, 
it  may  be;  but  not  so  blind  as  we  are, 
for  they  know  their  way,  an'  brightest  noon 
an'  darkest  night,  an'  summer  an'  winter, 
an'  calm  an'  storm,  are  one  an'  the  same  to 
them/' 

It  is  long  ago  now  since  I  heard  these  words 
from  old  Seumais  Macleod,  but  I  am  certain 
(so  deeply  did  they  impress  my  childish  im- 
agination, and  sink  into  a  child's  mind)  that 
I  repeat  them  almost  exactly.  I  had  no  hesi- 
tation in  believing  in  Gorm-Dhu  and  Luath- 
Donn,  and  the  rest,  and  took  these  names 
to  be  real  names  of  actual  creatures,  as 
Daoine-Vhara  (folk  of  the  sea)  for  seals,  or 
as  piocach  for  the  brown  saithe  I  was  wont 
to  watch  swimming  amid  the  fronds  of 
the  seaweed,  or  as  sgddan  for  the  flashing 
herring  whose  shoals  so  often  made  a  daz- 
zle in  the  offing  beyond  the  strait,  and  whose 
radiant  scales  glorified  as  with  gems  the 
nets  hauled  up  in  the  moonshine  or  in 
the  pale  rose  and  cowslip-yellow  of  August 
dawns. 

95 


The  Tides 

And,  in  truth,  I  am  not  much  the  wiser 
now.  There  is  no  great  gain  in  wisdom  in  the 
knowledge  that  the  tides  are  not  mysterious 
creatures  of  the  deep,  and  are  nameless  as  the 
winds,  as  homeless  as  they,  as  silent,  furtive, 
as  formless,  as  incalculable  almost,  as  variable. 
The  old  islander  knew  how  to  turn  into  ser- 
vice their  comings  and  goings,  how  to  meet 
them  when  friendly,  how  to  evade  them  when 
hostile,  how  to  wonder  continually  at  their 
strange  beauty,  how  to  reverence  the  terrible 
order  of  their  rhythmic  flow  and  ebb.  What 
matter  if,  also,  his  old-world  Gaelic  imagina- 
tion imaged  to  him  these  dark  forces  of  the 
sea  as  living  creatures ;  not  of  flesh  and  blood 
as  the  slim  brown  seals  who,  too,  can  glide 
not  less  swiftl}-  and  secretly  through  dusky 
green  water-ways;  not  even  of  such  consist- 
ency as  the  tide-wrack  floating  on  the  wave, 
or  the  dim,  wandering  medusae  which  drift 
like  pale,  quenchless  fires  in  the  untroubled 
stillness  of  the  twilit  underworld ;  but  at  least 
of  the  company  of  lightning,  of  fire,  of  the 
wind,  of  dew,  of  shadow  .  .  .  creatures  with- 
out form  as  we  know  form,  but  animate  with 
a  terrible  and  mysterious  life  of  their  own — 
a  secret  brotherhood  among  the  visible  and 
invisible  clans  of  the  world.  What  matter  if, 
remembering  songs  and  old  tales  and  incal- 
96 


The  Tides 

culable  traditions,  he  thought  of  them  with 
names,  as  the  "  fleet-brown-one,"  as  "  swift- 
darkness,"  as  "the  dark-courser,"  as  "the 
untameable,"  as  "  the  hound  of  death "  ? 
These  tell  us  neither  more  nor  less  (to  many 
of  us  more,  not  less)  than  the  abstruse 
algebraical  formulae  of  Newton  and  La- 
place. The  imagination  does  not  move  like 
flame  among  intricate  calculations,  though  the 
mind  may  be  compelled  and  convinced ; 
and  some  of  us  at  least  would  learn  more 
of  the  tides  and  their  occult  nature  and 
laws  from  an  old  islesman  telling  of  lionadh 
and  sruth-mara  than  from  the  bewildering 
maze  of  the  five-and-fifty  columns  which 
the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica  devotes  to  the 
subject. 

Everywhere  this  tidal  mystery,  this  beauty 
of  flood  and  ebb,  is  to  be  seen  .  .  .  along 
whatever  coasts  sea-waters  move  or  wher- 
ever they  penetrate.  The  "tideless  Mediterra- 
nean" is  but  a  phrase.  Even  along  the 
shores  of  Malta  and  Sicily  there  is  a  percep- 
tible rise  and  fall,  and  at  a  thousand  points 
between  Marseilles  or  Tangier  and  Venice  or 
Cape  Matapan  the  tidal  movement  is  as  mys- 
terious and  impressive  as  among  the  shoals  of 
Ushant  or  in  the  Norsk  fjords.  There  are 
few  places  where  the  trained  eye  could  not 

97 


The  Tides 

perceive  a  difference  of  rise  or  fall.  I  recol- 
lect being  shown  a  spot  on  the  Argive  coast 
of  the  Peloponnesus  where,  it  was  said,  the 
tidal  difference  was  non-existent.  On  that 
very  day,  a  day  of  windless  calm,  I  noticed 
a  fall  of  over  a  foot  in  depth.  Dark,  steep 
rocks  shelved  to  deep  waters,  and  to  all  ordi- 
nary appearance  there  was  nothing  to  indi- 
cate the  slightest  variance  between  flow  and 
ebb.  Even  a  Morean  Greek  declared  "  there 
is  no  flood,  ho  ebb,  here." 

But,  in  our  own  home-waters,  what  mar- 
vellous changes  take  place  under  the  strong 
continuous  pull  of  the  lunar  reins.  Think  of 
wind  and  flood-tide  on  the  Channel  coasts, 
with  the  strange  sound  as  of  a  murmurous 
host  confusedly  marching:  think  of  the  daily 
two-fold  flooding  of  estuaries,  and  the  sinu- 
ous invasion  of  the  sea  past  curving  banks 
and  among  remote  inland  meadows.  Are 
rivers  not  enhanced  in  mystery  when  through 
the  downward  flow  a  salt  serpentine  envoy 
from  the  distant  sea  forces  its  way,  revealing 
itself  in  circuitous  eddies,  in  dark  revolving 
rings,  in  troubled  surface-seethe:  bringing  to 
the  flags  and  rushes,  to  the  leaning  grasses 
and  gold  kingcup  and  purple  mallow  that  salt 
lip,  which  a  score  or  half-score  miles  away 
had  been  laid  on  the  sea-grapes  of  the  blad- 
98 


The  Tides 

der-wrack,  or  on  the  slow-involving  tresses 
of  the  twisting  long-weed.  Then  there  is 
that  miraculous  halt,  when  the  cold  hand 
of  the  tide  can  reach  no  farther:  when  at 
a  boat's  helm  a  curl  of  dark  brackish  water 
will  indolently  lapse,  while  at  the  prow 
the  clear-brown  rippling  rush  will  be  fresh 
with  gathered  rains  and  dews  and  the  un- 
sullied issues  of  wellsprings  and  sunlit 
sources. 

The  tide-flow  may  be  more  beautiful  and 
obvious  seen  from  the  high  shores  of  certain 
estuaries,  as,  say,  from  the  Falmouth  uplands, 
or  from  the  hillsides  of  our  narrow  Highland 
sea-lochs,  but  the  mind  is  deeplier  impressed 
and  the  imagination  compelled  by  the  more 
obscure,  menacing,  and  almost  terrifying 
swift  arrivals  along  vast  shallow  estuaries, 
such  as  The  Wash  or  the  inner  reaches  of 
Solway  Firth  or  by  the  Sands  o'  Dee.  With 
what  abrupt  turbulence  the  calms  are  violated, 
with  what  a  gathering  sound  the  invisible  host 
is  marshalled,  with  what  impetuous  surge  the 
immeasurable  sortie  advances!  Of  a  sudden 
those  little  shallows  in  the  sands,  those  little 
weed-hung  pools  below  slippery  rocks  covered 
with  mussel  and  dog-whelk,  shiver.  A  faint 
undulation  thrills  the  still  small  world.  A 
shrimp  darts  from  a  sand-mound :  a  blood-red 

99 


The  Tides 

anemone  thrusts  out  feathered  antennae:  now 
one,  now  another  shell-fish  stirs,  lifts,  gapes. 
It  is  the  response  of  the  obscure,  the  insignifi- 
cant, and  the  silent,  to  that  mighty  incalcul- 
able force  which  is  hastening  from  the  fath- 
omless depths  and  across  countless  leagues  of 
the  great  Sea.  Soon  the  flood  will  come :  per- 
haps in  furtive  swiftness  and  silence,  perhaps 
with  a  confused  multitudinous  noise  among 
which  are  inchoate  cries  and  fragmentary  be- 
wildering echoes  of  muffled  songs  and  chants, 
perhaps  as  in  charging  hordes  of  wild  sea- 
horses where  the  riders  are  not  seen  in  the 
dazzle  of  spray  nor  their  shouting  heard  in 
the  tumult  of  wave  dashed  against  wave  and 
billow  hurled  on  billow. 

To  be  in  some  such  place  .  .  .  say,  again, 
where  the  Breton  tide  races  against  the  flank 
of  Normandy  and  in  a  few  minutes  isolates 
Mont  St.  Michel  from  the  mainland;  or 
where  the  Northumbrian  flood  pours  across 
the  narrow  sands  of  Lindisfarne ;  or,  more 
than  everywhere  else  I  think,  where  the  fierce 
Atlantic  tides  leap  with  bewildering  surge 
and  clamour  across  the  vast  sea-gates  of 
Uist  and  rush  like  a  cataract  into  the  Hebrid 
Sea  ...  to  be  in  some  such  place  and  at  the 
first  mysterious  signals  of  the  oncoming  flood, 
by  night,  is  to  meet  the  unforgettable,  and,  as 

100 


The  Tides 

Blake  says,  to  be  at  one  with  the  eternal 
mystery. 

Flow  and  ebb,  ebb  and  flow  ...  it  is  that 
ancient  inexplicable  mystery,  the  everlasting 
and  unchanging  rhythm  which  holds  star 
to  star  in  infinite  procession,  which  lifts 
and  lowers  the  poles  of  our  sun-wheeling 
world,  which  compels  the  great  oceans  to 
arise  and  follow  the  mysterious  bidding  of 
the  moon.  It  is  wonderful  that  the  moon 
travels  along  the  equator  at  the  rate  of  a 
thousand  miles  an  hour:  but  more  wonder- 
ful that  these  loose,  formless,  blind  and  in- 
sensate waters  should  awake  at  the  touch  of 
that  pale  hand,  should  move  to  it  and  follow 
it  as  the  flocks  of  the  hills  to  the  voice  of  the 
shepherd. 

Flow  and  ebb,  ebb  and  flow  ...  it  is  the 
utterance  of  the  divine  law,  the  eternal  word 
of  Order.  It  is  life  itself.  What  life  is  there, 
from  the  phosphorescent  atom  in  the  running 
wave  to  the  enfranchised  soul  stepping  west- 
ward beyond  the  twilights  of  time,  that  is  not 
subject  to  this  ineffable  rhythmic  law.  The 
tides  of  the  world,  the  tides  of  life:  the  grey 
sap,  the  red  blood,  the  secret  dews,  the  tame- 
less seas,  birth  and  death,  the  noons  and  mid- 
nights of  the  mind  of  man,  the  evening  dusk 
and  the  morning  glory  of  the  soul  .  .  .  one 
101 


The  Tides 

and  all  move  inevitably,  and  in  one  way:  in 
one  way  come,  and  go,  and  come  again. 

"Mar  a  bha.  As  it  was, 

Mar  a  tha,  As  it  is, 

Mar  a  bhitheas  As  it  shall  be 

Gu  brath  Evermore 

Ri  tragadh,  With  the  ebb, 

'S  ri  lionadh."  With  the  flow." 


102 


THE    HILL-TARN 

Isolated,  in  one  of  the  wildest  and  loneli- 
est mountain-regions  of  the  Highlands  of 
Ross,  I  know  a  hill-tarn  so  rarely  visited  that 
one  might  almost  say  the  shadow  of  man  does 
not  fall  across  its  brown  water  from  year's 
end  to  year's  end.  It  lies  on  the  summit  of  a 
vast  barren  hill,  its  cradle  being  the  hollow  of 
a  crater.  Seven  mountains  encircle  Maoldhu 
from  north,  south,  east,  and  west.  One  of 
these  is  split  like  a  hayfork,  and  that  is  why 
it  is  called  in  Gaelic  the  Prong  of  Fionn.  An- 
other, whose  furrowed  brows  are  dark  with 
the  immemorial  rheum  of  the  Atlantic,  is 
called  the  Organ  of  Oisin,  because  at  a  height 
of  about  two  thousand  feet  it  shows  on  its 
haggard  front  a  black  colonnade  of  basalt, 
where  all  the  winds  of  the  west  make  a  wild 
and  desolate  music.  I  have  heard  its  lamen- 
tation falling  across  the  hill-solitudes  and 
down  through  the  mountain-glens  with  a 
sound  as  of  a  myriad  confused  sobs  and  cries, 
a  sound  that  is  now  a  forlorn  ecstasy  and 
now  the  voice  of  the  abyss  and  of  immea- 
103 


The  Hill-Tarn 

surable  desolation.  Another,  that  on  the  east, 
is  an  unscalable  cone,  from  whose  crest,  when 
sunrise  flames  the  serrated  crags  into  a  crown 
of  burning  bronze,  the  golden  eagle  sways 
like  a  slow-rising  and  slow-falling  meteor. 
All  day,  save  for  a  brief  hour  at  noon,  shadow 
dwells  about  its  knees,  and  never  lifts  from 
the  dark  grassy  lochan  at  its  feet.  It  is  called 
Maol  Athair  -  Uaibhreach,  the  Hill  of  the 
Haughty  Father :  I  know  not  why.  "  The 
Haughty  Father "  is  a  Gaelic  analogue  for 
the  Prince  of  Darkness — son  of  Saturn,  as 
he  is  called  in  an  old  poem :  "  God's  Elder 
Brother,"  as  he  is  named  in  a  legend  that  I 
have  met  or  heard  of  once  only — a  legend 
that  He  was  God  of  this  world  before  "  Mac 
Greinne  "  (lit.:  Son  of  the  Sun)  triumphed 
over  him,  and  drove  him  out  of  the  East  and 
out  of  the  South,  leaving  him  only  in  the 
West  and  in  the  North  two  ancient  forgotten 
cities  of  the  moon,  that  in  the  West  below  the 
thunder  of  grey  seas  and  that  in  the  North 
under  the  last  shaken  auroras  of  the  Pole. 

It  is  not  easy  to  reach  this  tarn  of  Maoldhu 
even  when  the  hillways  are  known.  The 
mountain-flanks  have  so  vast  a  sweep,  with 
such  wide  tracts  of  barren  declivity,  where 
the  loose  stones  and  boulders  seem  to  hang  in 
the  air  like  a  grey  suspended  fruit  though 
104 


The  Hill-Tarn 

the  first  tempest  will  set  them  rolling  in  ava- 
lanche ;  there  are  so  many  hidden  ravines, 
and  sudden  precipices  that  lean  beneath  tan- 
gled brows  like  smooth  appalling  faces;  on 
the  eastern  slopes  the  mountain-sheep  cannot 
climb  more  than  halfway;  on  the  south  and 
west  the  wailing  curlews  are  in  continual 
flight  above  wide  unfrontiered  reaches  of 
peat-bog  and  quaking  morass ;  so  many  crags 
lead  abruptly  to  long  shelving  ledges  shelter- 
less and  slippery  as  ice,  and  twice  an  abyss  of 
a  thousand  feet  falls  sheer  from  loose  rock 
covered  by  treacherous  heather  for  a  yard  or 
more  beyond  the  last  gnarled,  twisted  roots. 

But,  when  it  is  once  reached,  is  there  any 
solitude  in  the  world  more  solitary  than  here. 
The  tarn,  or  lochan  rather — for  if  it  is  not 
wide  enough  to  be  called  a  loch  it  is  larger 
than  the  ordinary  tarn  one  is  familiar  with 
on  high  moorlands  and  among  the  hills — has 
no  outlook  save  to  the  lonely  reach  of  sky 
just  above  it.  A  serrated  crest  of  herbless 
and  lifeless  precipice  circles  it.  On  the  lower 
slopes  a  rough  grass  grows,  and  here  and 
there  a  little  bog-myrtle  may  be  seen.  At  one 
end  a  small  dishevelled  array  of  reed  disputes 
the  water-edge,  in  thin,  straggling,  disconso- 
late lines.  There  is  nothing  else.  Sometimes 
the  ptarmigan  will  whirr  across  it,  though 

105 


The  Hill-Tarn 

they  do  not  love  crossing  water.  Sometimes 
the  shadow  of  an  eagle's  wing  darkens  the 
already  obscure  depths.  But  the  mountain- 
sheep  never  reach  this  height,  and  even  the 
red  deer  do  not  come  here  to  drink  these  still, 
brown  waters :  "  One  sees  no  antlers  where 
the  heather  ceases,"  as  the  shepherds  say. 
The  clouds  rise  above  the  crests  of  the  west 
and  pass  beyond  the  crests  of  the  east:  snow, 
the  steel-blue  sleet,  the  grey  rains,  sweep  past 
overhead.  In  summer,  a  vast  cumulus  will 
sometimes  for  hours  overlean  the  barren 
crater  and  fill  the  tarn  with  a  snowy  won- 
derland and  soft  abysses  of  rose  and  vio- 
let: sometimes  a  deep,  cloudless  azure  will 
transmute  it  to  a  still  flame  of  unruffled, 
shadowless  blue.  At  night,  when  it  is  not  a 
pit  of  darkness  to  which  the  upper  dark- 
ness is  twilight,  it  will  hold  many  stars.  For 
three  hours  Arcturus  will  pulsate  in  it  like  a 
white  flame.  Other  planets  will  rise,  and 
other  stars.  Their  silver  feet  tread  the  depths 
in  silence.  Sometimes  the  moon  thrusts  long 
yellow  lances  down  into  its  brooding  heart, 
or  will  lie  on  its  breast  like  the  curled  horn 
of  the  honeysuckle,  or,  in  autumn,  like  a  float- 
ing shell  filled  with  fires  of  phosphorescence. 
Sunset  never  burns  there,  though  sometimes 
the  flush  of  the  afterglow  descends  as  on  soft 
106 


The  Hill-Tarn 

impalpable  wings  from  the  zenith.  At  dawn, 
in  midsummer,  long  scarlet  lines  will  drift 
from  its  midmost  to  the  south  and  west,  like 
blood-stained  shafts  and  battle-spears  of  a  de- 
feated aerial  host. 

Few  sounds  are  heard  by  that  mountain- 
tarn.  The  travelling  cloud  lets  fall  no  echo 
of  its  fierce  frost-crashing  shards.  Dawn  and 
noon  and  dusk  are  quiet- footed  as  mist.  The 
stars  march  in  silence.  The  springing  North- 
ern Lights  dance  in  swift  fantastic  flame, 
but  are  voiceless  as  the  leaping  shadows 
in  a  wood.  Only  those  other  wayfarers  of 
the  mountain-summit,  tempest,  thunder,  the 
streaming  wind,  the  snow  coming  with  muf- 
fled rush  out  of  the  north,  wild  rains  and 
whirling  sleet,  the  sharp  crackling  tread  of 
the  hosts  of  frost:  only  these  break  the  si- 
lence ;  or,  at  times,  the  cries  of  "  the  eldest 
children  of  the  hill "  as  the  mountain-Gael 
calls  the  eagle,  the  hill-fox,  and  the  ptarmigan 
—  the  only  creatures  that  have  their  home 
above  the  reach  of  the  heather  and  in  the 
grey  stony  wildernesses  where  only  the  speck- 
led moss  and  the  lichen  thrive. 

When  I  was  last  at  this  desolate  and  re- 
mote tarn  I  realised  the  truth  of  that  hill- 
saying.  After  the  farthest  oaks  on  Sliabh 
Gorm,  as  the  ridge  to  the  south-west  is  called 
107 


The  Hill-Tarn 

and  up  which  alone  is  a  practicable  if  rough 
and  often  broken  way,  came  scattered  groups 
and  then  isolated  trees  of  birch  and  moun- 
tain -  ash.  Thereafter  for  a  long  way  the 
heather  climbed.  Then  it  gave  way  more 
and  more  to  bracken.  In  turn  the  bracken 
broke  like  the  last  faint  surf  against  huge 
boulders  and  waste  stony  places.  The  grouse 
called  far  below.  The  last  deer  were  brows- 
ing along  their  extreme  pastures,  some  five 
hundred  to  eight  hundred  feet  below  the  pre- 
cipitous bastions  of  Maoldhu.  Higher  than 
they  I  saw  a  circling  hawk  and  three  ravens 
flying  slowly  against  the  wind.  Then  came 
the  unpeopled  wilderness,  or  so  it  seemed  till 
I  heard  the  wail  of  a  solitary  curlew  (that 
spirit  of  the  waste,  for  whom  no  boggy  moors 
lie  too  low  and  desolate,  for  whom  no  moun- 
tain-ranges are  too  high  and  wild  and  soli- 
tary), and  once,  twice,  and  again  in  harsh  res- 
ponse but  faint  against  the  wind,  the  barking 
of  a  hill-fox  and  its  mate.  All  life  had  ceased, 
I  thought,  after  that,  save  an  eagle  which  in 
a  tireless  monotony  swung  round  and  round 
the  vast  summit  of  Maoldhu.  But  suddenly, 
perhaps  a  hundred  feet  above  me,  six  or 
seven  ptarmigan  rose  with  a  whirr,  made  a 
long  sailing  sweep,  and  settled  (slidingly  and 
gradually  as  flounders  in  shallow  waters 
108 


The  Hill-Tarn 

among  grey  pebbles  and  obscuring  sand- 
furrows)  among  the  lichened  boulders  and 
loose  disarray  of  speckled  granite  and  dark 
and  grey  basalt  and  trap — an  ideal  cover,  for 
even  a  keen  following  gaze  could  not  discern 
the  living  from  the  inanimate. 

Truly  the  eagle,  the  hill-fox,  and  the  ptar- 
migan are  "  the  eldest  children  of  the  hill." 
The  stag  may  climb  thus  high  too  at  times, 
for  outlook,  or  for  the  intoxication  of  desola- 
tion and  of  illimitable  vastness;  sometimes 
the  hawks  soar  over  the  wilderness;  even  the 
mountain-hares  sometimes  reach  and  race  des- 
perately across  these  high  arid  wastes.  But 
these  all  come  as  men  in  forlorn  and  lonely 
lands  climb  the  grey  uninhabitable  mountains 
beyond  them,  seeking  to  know  that  which 
they  cannot  see  beneath,  seeking  often  for 
they  know  not  what.  They  are  not  dwellers 
there.  The  stag,  that  mountain-lover,  cannot 
inhabit  waste  rock;  the  red  grouse  would 
perish  where  the  ptarmigan  thrives  and  is 
content. 

How  little  has  been  written  about  these 
birds  of  the  mountain-brow.  What  poetry  is 
in  their  name,  for  those  who  know  the  hills. 
They  dwell  higher  than  the  highest  June- 
flight  of  the  tireless  swift,  higher  than  the 
last  reaches  of  the  sunrise-leaping  larks. 
109 


The  Hill-Tarn 

Cities  might  crumble  away  in  pale  clouds  o£ 
dust,  floods  might  whelm  every  lowland,  great 
fires  might  devour  the  forests  and  the  red  in- 
satiable myriad  of  flame  lap  up  the  last  high 
frontiers  of  bracken  and  climbing  heather, 
and  the  ptarmigan  would  know  nothing  of  it, 
would  not  care.  Their  grey  home  would  be 
inviolate.  No  tempest  can  drive  them  forth. 
Even  the  dense  snows  of  January  do  not 
starve  them  out.  Do  they  not  mock  them  by 
then  taking  the  whiteness  of  the  snow  for 
their  own?  They  have  nothing  to  fear  save 
the  coming  of  a  black  frost  so  prolonged  and 
deathly  that  even  the  sunfire  in  the  eagle's 
blood  grows  chill,  and  the  great  pinions  dare 
no  more  face  the  icy  polar  breath.  "  They'll 
be  the  last  things  alive  when  the  world  is 
cold,"  said  an  old  gillie  to  me,  speaking  of 
these  storm-swept  lichen-fed  children  of  the 
upper-wild. 

The  same  old  gillie  once  saw  a  strange 
sight  at  my  mountain-tarn.  He  had  when  a 
youth  climbed  Maoldhu  to  its  summit  in  mid- 
winter, because  of  a  challenge  that  he  could 
not  do  what  no  other  had  ever  done  at  that 
season.  He  started  before  dawn,  but  did  not 
reach  the  lochan  till  a  red  fire  of  sunset  flared 
along  the  crests.  The  tarn  was  frozen  deep, 
and  for  all  the  pale  light  that  dwelled  upon  it 
no 


The  Hill-Tarn 

was  black  as  basalt,  for  a  noon-tempest  had 
swept  its  surface  clear  of  snow.  At  first  he 
thought  small  motionless  icebergs  lay  in  it, 
but  wondered  at  their  symmetrical  circle.  He 
descended  as  far  as  he  dared,  and  saw  that 
seven  wild-swans  were  frozen  on  the  tarn's 
face.  They  had  alit  there  to  rest,  no  doubt: 
but  a  fierce  cold  had  numbed  them,  and  an 
intense  frost  of  death  had  suddenly  transfixed 
each  as  they  swam  slowly  circlewise  as  is  their 
wont.  They  may  have  been  there  for  days, 
perhaps  for  weeks.  A  month  later  the  gillie 
repeated  his  arduous  and  dangerous  feat. 
They  were  still  there,  motionless,  ready  for 
flight  as  it  seemed. 

How  often  in  thought  I  have  seen  that 
coronal  of  white  swans  above  the  dark  face 
of  that  far,  solitary  tarn :  in  how  many 
dreams  I  have  listened  to  the  rustle  of  un- 
loosening wings,  and  seen  seven  white  phan- 
toms rise  cloud-like,  and  like  clouds  at  night 
drift  swiftly  into  the  dark;  and  heard,  as 
mournful  bells  through  the  solitudes  of  sleep, 
the  honk-honk  of  the  wild-swans  traversing 
the  obscure  forgotten  ways  to  the  secret  coun- 
try beyond  sleep  and  dreams  and  silence. 


in 


AT  THE  TURN  OF  THE  YEAR 

When  one  hears  of  "  the  dead  months,"  of 
"  dead  December  "  and  "  bleak  January,"  the 
best  corrective  is  to  be  found  in  the  coppice 
or  by  the  stream-side,  by  the  field-thicket,  in 
the  glens,  and  even  on  the  wide  moors  if  the 
snow  is  not  everywhere  fallen,  a  coverlet  so 
dense  and  wide  that  even  the  juniper  has  not 
a  green  spike  to  show,  or  the  dauntless  bunt- 
ing a  clean  whin-branch  to  call  from  on  the 
broomieknowe.  Even  the  common  sayings 
reveal  a  knowledge  hidden  from  those  to 
whom  winter  is  "  a  dead  season  "...  and  it 
is  a  continual  surprise  to  find  how  many  peo- 
ple believe  that  from  the  fall  of  the  leaf  or 
the  first  sleet  and  snow,  till  the  thrush  dou- 
bles and  trebles  his  note  in  the  February  wet- 
shine,  that  bird  and  insect  and  all  green  life 
have  gone,  that  all  Nature  is  dead  or  asleep. 
Thus,  for  example,  "  as  keen  in  the  hearing 
as  a  winter-plover  "  must  have  been  uttered, 
when  first  said,  by  a  watcher  of  the  multi- 
form bird-life  of  our  winter-fields  and  fallow 
lands,  one  who  knew  that  the  same  drama  of 

112 


At  the  Turn  of  the  Year 

life  and  death  is  enacted  in  midwinter  as  in 
midspring  or  midsummer,  a  drama  only  less 
crowded,  less  complex  and  less  obvious,  but 
not  less  continual,  not  less  vital  for  the  actors. 
Who  that  has  watched  the  peewits  seeking 
worms  on  ploughed  lands  at  midwinter,  and 
seen  them  poise  their  delicate  heads  and  listen 
for  the  phantom  rustle  of  a  worm  in  this  clod 
or  under  yonder  fallow,  while  the  greedy  but 
incapable  seamews,  inland  come  from  frost- 
bound  coasts  or  on  the  front  of  prolonged 
gales,  hear  nothing  of  "  the  red  people  "  and 
trust  only  to  bulk  and  fierce  beak  to  snatch 
the  prey  from  hungry  plover-bills  .  .  .  who 
that  has  seen  this  can  fail  to  recognise  the 
aptness  of  the  saying,  "  as  keen  in  the  hear- 
ing as  a  winter-plover "  ?  Who  that  has 
watched  the  ebb  and  flow  of  lark-life,  resi- 
dent and  immigrant;  the  troubled  winter- 
days  of  the  field-travellers  (as  the  familiar 
word  "  fieldfare  "  means)  and  the  wandering 
thrushes ;  the  vagrant  rooks,  the  barn-haunt- 
ing hoodie;  the  yellow-hammer  flocks  and 
the  tribes  of  the  finch ;  the  ample  riverside 
life,  where  heron  and  snipe,  mallard  and 
moor -hen,  wren  and  kingfisher,  and  even 
plover  and  the  everywhere  adaptable  star- 
ling are  to  be  found  with  ease  by  quick  eyes 
and  careful  ears:  who  that  has  seen  the  sud- 

"3 


At  the  Turn  of  the  Year 

den  apparition  of  the  bat,  or  the  columnar 
dance  of  the  ephemeridae,  or  the  flight  of 
the  winter-moth  along  the  dishevelled  hedge- 
rows :  or  who  that,  besides  the  mistletoe  and 
the  ivy,  the  holly  and  the  fir,  the  box  and 
the  late-flowering  clematis,  and  many  other 
of  the  green  and  flowering  clans  of  the  forest 
and  the  garden,  has  noted  the  midwinter- 
blooming  shepherd's  purse,  healing  groundsel, 
bright  chickweed,  and  red  deadnettle,  can 
think  of  Nature  as  lifeless  at  this  season? 
When  amid  the  rains  and  storms  of  Decem- 
ber an  old  gardener,  instead  of  saying  that 
spring  was  on  the  move,  remarked  to  me 
that  "  'Twill  be  starling  days  soon,"  he  gave 
voice  to  a  truth  of  observation  as  impressive 
as  it  is  beautiful.  For  often  December  has 
not  lapsed  before  the  mysterious  breeding- 
change  of  the  Vita  Nuova,  the  New  Life  that 
spreads  like  a  flowing  wave  so  early  in  the 
coming  year  will  begin  to  be  obvious  on  the 
dun-hued  lapwing,  on  the  inland-wandering 
gull,  and  even  on  one  or  other  of  the  small 
"  clan  of  the  bushes  "  more  dear  and  familiar 
to  us.  On  none,  however,  is  the  change  so 
marked  as  on  the  blithe  starling,  surely  the 
bird  of  cheerfulness,  for  he  will  sing  (does 
he  ever  cease  that  ever-varying  call  or  flute 
or  whistle  of  his?)  when  the  lark  cannot 
114 


At  the  Turn  of  the  Year 

rise  in  the  polar  air,  when  the  missel-thrush 
will  not  throw  a  challenge  on  the  wet  wind, 
and  long  before  the  most  jubilant  great-tit  in 
the  forest  will  ring  his  early  tinkling  bell 
under  leafless  boughs.  For,  even  at  Christ- 
mastide,  though  rarely  perhaps  quite  so  early, 
the  dark  bill  will  suddenly  yellow,  and  a 
green  and  purple  sheen  will  come  over  the 
russet  plumage.  Already  Nature  has  looked 
northward  again.  And,  when  she  looks,  there 
is  at  once  a  first  movement  of  the  infinite 
sweet  trouble  of  the  New  Life  once  more. 
The  Creative  Spirit  is  come  again  from  the 
sunways  of  the  South.  "  'Twill  be  starling 
days  soon  " — what  is  that  but  a  homely  way 
of  saying  that  the  old  year  has  not  lapsed 
before  the  new  year  has  already  stirred  with 
the  divine  throes  of  rebirth.  "  The  King  is 
dead :  Long  live  the  King !  "  is  the  human 
analogue.  There  is  no  interregnum.  The 
cuckoo  may  have  fled  before  the  swallow, 
the  landrail  before  the  wild  swan,  but  during 
the  grey  ebb  of  Autumn  ten  thousand  wings 
have  rustled  in  the  dawn  as  the  migrants 
from  oversea  descend  at  last  on  our  English 
and  Scottish  shores.  A  myriad  host  may 
have  fled  at  the  equinox,  or  lingered  till  the 
wet  winds  of  the  west  and  the  freezing  blasts 
of  the  north  swept  them  from  November ;  but 

"5 


At  the  Turn  of  the  Year 

on  those  east  winds  from  Norway  and  the 
Baltic,  from  Jutland  and  Friesland,  on  those 
south  winds  leaping  upward  from  the  marsh- 
es of  Picardy  and  the  Breton  heathlands  and 
from  all  of  the  swarm-delivering  South  be- 
hind, on  those  southwest  gales  warm  with  the 
soft  air  of  the  isles  of  the  West,  and  wet  with 
the  foam  over  lost  Ys  and  sunken  Lyonesse, 
what  an  incalculable  host  has  come  hither- 
ward.  Like  great  fans,  the  invisible  pinions 
of  the  Bird-God,  that  Winged  Spirit  whom 
a  Finnish  legend  images  in  continual  sus- 
pense at  the  Crossways  of  the  Four  Winds, 
beat  this  way  and  that:  so  that  when  already 
the  lament  of  the  wild-geese  in  storm-baffled 
flight  from  the  South  ululates  in  our  norland 
dawns,  clouds  of  larks  are  gathered  like  dust 
from  the  North-Sea  lands,  and  are  blown 
upon  our  shores,  a  multitude  of  thrush  turn 
westward,  the  rook  and  the  hoodie  rise  on  the 
Danish  wind,  and  yonder  shadow  drifting 
over  the  woods  of  Norway  is  none  other 
than  ten  thousand  fieldfares  whose  congrega- 
tion will  soon  be  spilt  like  rain  upon  our  fields 
and  pastures. 

When  is  the  turn  of  the  year?     We  have 
certainly   not   to   wait   till   the   missel-thrush 
calls    down    the    wind    on    the  moist    south- 
wester  that  comes  in  February.     The  chang- 
116 


At  the  Turn  of  the  Year 

ing  seasons  are  indifferent  to  our  calendars. 
Autumn  may  burn  the  lime  and  chestnut 
while  Summer  is  still  in  her  glory;  Summer 
may  steal  back  upon  us  through  the  Septem- 
ber haze,  or  even  after  we  have  heard  the 
dry  rustle  in  the  woods  of  October.  We  are 
familiar  with  the  return  of  halcyon  days 
when  St.  Luke's  Peace  follows  the  wind 
Euroclydon,  or  when  St.  Martin's  Summer 
gleams  like  a  quiet  sunset  on  the  stormy 
brows  of  Winter.  In  mid-December  the 
gnat  may  still  be  seen  spinning  her  dance  by 
the  hedgerow,  the  warmth-loving  bat  may 
still  wheel  through  silent  afternoon  dusks, 
the  robin  will  pitch  his  blithe  song  from  holly 
to  holly,  the  hedgesparrow  will  chase  the 
winter  moth,  the  chaffinch  will  challenge  the 
marauding  tit.  In  January,  when  the  snow- 
lids  open  and  the  blue  is  seen,  a  lark  will 
spray  his  sudden  music  from  far  up  in  the 
pale  azure,  and  as  the  long  notes  tinkle  and 
the  interwoven  song  falls  down  the  blue  in- 
visible ways,  we  almost  imagine  that  sky- 
glimpse  to  be  the  very  face  of  Spring. 

Thus  we  have  to  wait  for  no  day  on  which 
to  note  from  the  calendar  that  the  New  Year 
is  come,  or  on  which  to  exclaim  that  Winter 
is  gone  and  Spring  has  arrived.  A  day  may 
come,  in  February,  perhaps,  when,  suddenly, 
117 


At  the  Turn  of  the  Year 

one  will  realise,  as  after  sleep  one  realises 
one  is  awake,  that  the  hands  of  the  South  are 
in  the  woods,  that  the  eyes  of  the  South  are 
looking  into  the  white  sleep  of  blossom  and 
flower,  that  the  breath  of  the  South  has 
awakened  love,  has  stirred  music  in  the  hearts 
of  all  the  clans  of  song.  But  if  we  had  not 
ourselves  been  asleep  we  should  not  have 
waited  thus  long  for  the  exquisite  surprise. 
We  should  have  known  the  divine  conspiracy 
by  which  the  North  and  South  are  lovers,  and 
the  West  comrade  to  the  East.  The  con- 
spiracy of  the  eternal  passion  by  which  power 
desires  power,  and  dominion  lusteth  after 
dominion:  so  that  all  the  effort  of  the  North 
is  to  touch  the  lips  of  the  South,  all  the  dream 
of  the  East  is  to  reach  the  sunset-gardens  of 
the  West.  We  should  have  known,  when 
out  of  December  frost  or  January  snow  the 
redbreast  thrilled  a  canticle  of  joy,  or  the  rus- 
set moth  sought  his  wingless  love  in  windless 
flame-set  twilights,  that  the  Grey  Lover  al- 
ready felt  the  breath  from  those  ardent  Tips. 
We  should  have  realised  that  when  across  the 
snow-silence  the  fieldfares  no  longer  edged 
southward,  that  when  on  the  upland-pasture 
the  lapwing  began  his  bridal  change  and  in 
the  bare  orchard  the  starling  began  to  glisten 
as  though  he  had  bathed  at  the  edge  of  the 
118 


At  the  Turn  of  the  Year 

rainbow,  or  to  wonder,  in  some  ice-set  mirror, 
at  his  dun  beak  now  grown  yellow  as  the 
sheltered  crocus  he  knows  of  under  the  gar- 
den-yew ...  we  should  have  realised  that 
while  this  dark-browed  barbarian  from  the 
North  slept,  the  fair  woman  of  the  South  had 
passed  smiling  by,  and  kissed  him  as  she 
passed. 

The  breeding-change  that  may  be  seen  even 
before  Christmas,  the  January  stir  that  be- 
comes so  obvious  a  week  or  so,  or  any  day, 
after  the  New  Year  is  come,  here  and  now 
we  are  at  the  turn  of  the  year.  By  mid- 
January,  even,  here  and  there,  the  song- 
thrush  and  the  missel  may  have  begun  to 
build,  and  even  the  great-tit's  bell  may  tinkle 
in  the  coppice  or  wind-spared  russet  oak- 
glade.  Already  the  snowdrop  and  the  Christ- 
mas-rose, the  green-white  aconite  and  the 
pale  winter-iris  are  become  old  acquaint- 
ances :  many  a  primrose  may  have  adventured 
in  shy  retreats:  any  day  a  wandering  min- 
strel will  spill  a  tinkle  of  music  from  among 
the  first  yellow  spray  of  hazel  catkins,  the 
hedgesparrow  may  unloosen  song  under  the 
early-opening  woodbine-buds,  the  corn-bunt- 
ing may  crack  his  fairy-hammer  or  the  wren 
try  his  new-year  flute  among  the  yellowing 
gorse :  any  day,  at  the  sight  of  the  first  nomad 
119 


At  the  Turn  of  the  Year 

daisies  or  the  first  gay  vagrant  dandelion,  the 
yellow-hammer  may  become  a  lover  and  a 
poet.  It  is  this  unchanging  "  any-day  "  ele- 
ment that  redeems  even  the  longest  and 
dreariest  midwinter;  the  sense  of  the  ever- 
moving  ichor  in  the  eternal  veins;  the  inward 
exultation  at  the  ever-quickening  and  ever- 
slow'ing,  but  never-ceasing  fans  of  life  and 
death. 

Yesterday,  rain-fog;  to-day,  frost-mist. 
But  how  fascinating  each.  How  vast  and 
menacing  the  familiar  oaks  looked,  leaning 
gigantic  over  dim  lapsing  hedgerows.  How 
phantom-like  and  processional,  the  elms  steal- 
ing into  view  one  after  the  other ;  the  birches 
disclosing  tresses  wet  with  dews  from  the 
secret  woods  they  are  gliding  from  to  regain 
the  secret  lands  beyond  the  misty  river  where 
I  can  hear  the  mallard  call,  like  a  sudden  toc- 
sin among  the  falling  towers  and  silent  ava- 
lanches of  Cloudland. 

It  is  desolate  here,  where  I  stand. 

"Cinnidh  feanntag  's  a  gharadh 
'N  uair  thig  faillinn  'son  rds. " 

"Nettles  grow  in  the  garden, 
While  the  roses  decay." 

A  long  way  off  yet  till  the  wood-thrush 
rings  his  falling  chime  from  the  April-Tree 

120 


At  the  Turn  of  the  Year 

or  French-Broom,  as  the  laburnum  is  called 
in  some  parts  of  the  Highlands.  I  know  a 
wood  where  a  great  Bealaidh  Fhrangach 
sleeps,  to  awake  months  hence  in  sun-gold 
beauty.  The  wood-thrush  will  be  its  flute. 
Already  I  have  to-day  cut  a  slip  from  a  gar- 
den-laburnum, for  a  friend  who  wants  "  a 
flute  of  the  April-Tree  "  (feadan  na  Craobh 
Abraon)  .  .  .  for  there  is  no  timber  better 
for  the  whistlewood  of  the  bagpipe  than  this. 
And  what  more  fit  for  the  Strayed  Pan,  if 
perchance  he  follow  the  Phantom  Call  in  the 
Hills  of  the  North?  But  see  ...  the  mist 
has  gone  like  a  haze  from  blue  water.  I  hear 
starling-music  over  yonder  in  the  Talamh  nan 
Ramh,  as  Ossian  calls  the  Country  of  the 
Woods.  The  Flute  of  the  April-Tree,  and 
snow  at  my  feet !  "  The  Flute  of  the  April- 
Tree":  it  has  the  yellow  and  white  magic  of 
Spring  in  it. 


121 


THE  SONS  OF  THE  NORTH  WIND 

Down  thro'  the  Northlands 
Come  the  White  Brothers, 
One  clad  in  foam 
And  one  mailed  in  water — 
Foam  white  as  bear-felt, 
Water  like  coat  of  mail. 
Snow  is  the  Song  of  Me, 
Singeth  the  one; 
Silence  the  Breath  of  Me, 
Whispers  the  other. 

So  sings  a  Swedish  poet,  a  lineal  descend- 
ant of  one  of  the  Saga-men  whose  songs  the 
Vikings  carried  to  the  ends  of  the  world  of 
that  day.  The  song  is  called  "  The  Sons  of 
the  North  Wind,"  and  the  allusion  is  to  an 
old  ballad-saga  common  in  one  form  or  an- 
other throughout  all  the  countries  of  both  the 
Gall  and  the  Gael  .  .  .  from  Finland  to  the 
last  of  the  island-kingdoms  between  Ultima 
Thule  and  the  Gaelic  West.  The  White 
Brothers  are  familiar  indeed,  though  with  us 
they  come  oftener  clothed  with  beauty  than 
with  terror,  with  strange  and  beautiful  new 

122 


The  Sons  of  the  North  Wind 

life  rather  than  with  the  solemnity  and  dread 
aspect  of  death. 

Among  the  Gaelic  hills  we  have  a  prose 
variant  of  "  The  Sons  of  the  North  Wind," 
which  I  suppose  is  still  told  to  children  by  the 
fireglow  on  winter  evenings,  as,  when  a  child, 
the  present  writer  was  told  it  and  retold  it  by 
the  fireglow  on  many  a  winter  evening  when 
the  crackling  fall  of  icicles  from  fir-sprays 
near  the  window  could  be  heard,  or  the  sud- 
den shuffle  of  snow  in  the  declivities  of  the 
steep  glen  hard-by.  The  story  is  generally 
told  as  a  tale,  but  sometimes  the  teller  chants 
it  as  a  duan  or  poem.  For  it  is  more  a  poem 
than  a  prose  narrative  on  the  lips  of  Gaelic 
speakers. 

The  North  Wind  had  three  sons.  These 
Sons  of  the  North  Wind  were  called  White- 
Feet  and  White-Wings  and  White-Hands. 
When  White -Feet  and  White -Wings  and 
White-Hands  first  came  into  our  world  from 
the  invisible  palaces •,  they  were  so  beautiful 
that  many  mortals  died  from  beholding  them, 
while  others  dared  not  look,  but  fled  af- 
frighted into  woods  or  obscure  places.  So 
when  these  three  sons  of  the  Great  Chieftain 
saw  that  they  were  too  radiant  for  the  eyes 
of  the  earth-bound  they  receded  beyond  the 
gates  of  the  sunset,  and  took  counsel  with  the 
123 


The  Sons  of  the  North  Wind 

All  father.  When,  through  the  gates  of  dawn, 
they  came  again  they  were  no  longer  visible 
to  men,  nor,  in  all  the  long  grey  reaches  of 
the  years,  has  any  since  been  seen  of  mortal 
eyes.  How  are  they  known,  these  Sons  of 
the  North  Wind?  They  were  known  of  old, 
they  are  known  still,  only  by  the  white  feet 
of  one  treading  the  waves  of  the  sea;  and  by 
the  white  rustle  and  sheen  of  a  myriad  tiny 
plumes  as  the  other  unfolds  great  pinions 
above  hills  and  valleys,  woodlands  and  garths, 
and  the  homes  of  men;  and  by  the  white  si- 
lence of  dream  that  the  third  lays  upon  mov- 
ing waters,  and  the  windless  boughs  of  trees, 
upon  the  reed  by  the  silent  loch,  upon  the 
grass  by  the  silent  tarn,  upon  the  bracken 
by  the  unfailing  hill-stream  hanging  like  a 
scarf  among  the  rock  and  mountain-ash.  We 
know  them  no  more  by  their  ancient  names 
or  in  their  immortal  body,  but  only  thus  by 
the  radiance  of  their  passing,  and  we  call 
them  the  Polar  Wind,  and  Snow,  and  Ice. 

It  is  at  this  season,  in  all  northern  lands, 
that  the  miracle  of  the  snow-change,  the  new 
beauty  of  the  snow-world,  is  transcendent. 
Truly,  it  is  miraculous,  that  change :  that  new 
world,  what  a  revelation  it  is,  showing  us  the 
familiar  as  we  have  never  known  it  or  have 
of  it  but  a  dream-like  remembrance,  showing 
124 


The  Sons  of  the  North  Wind 

it  to  us  at  times  as  we  can  hardly  conceive  it. 
To  the  continual  element  of  surprise  much 
has  to  be  attributed,  in  our  country  at  least. 
In  lands  like  Scandinavia  and  Russia  the 
periodicity  and  uniformity  of  the  snow-rai- 
ment of  earth  take  much  from  this  element 
of  surprise.  Hardly  have  the  inhabitants 
grown  used  to  the  greenness  of  grass  and 
sprouting  grain  and  fluttering  leaf,  after  the 
long  months  of  a  silent  whiteness  become 
dreadful  as  a  shroud,  when  a  grey  pall  is  spun 
out  of  the  east  once  more  and  out  of  the 
north  comes  the  wind  of  death,  and  the  leaf 
is  gone  away  on  the  polar  air  the  grain  is 
gathered  or  withered,  the  sere  grass  fades 
like  wintry  grey-green  seas  fading  into  con- 
tinual foam. 

Not  so  with  us,  who  have  those  visitors, 
who  can  be  so  dread  even  here,  for  so  short 
a  time.  The  dark  sword-thrust  of  the  ice, 
compelling  moving  waters  to  silence  and  the 
blue  rigour  of  steel,  may  reign  for  weeks  in 
the  Anglian  fen-lands.  Dense  mantles  of 
snow  may  cover  the  hills  of  the  north  for 
months,  and  the  foreheads  of  Nevis  and 
Schiehallion  be  white  from  the  autumnal 
equinox  till  cuckoo-cry:  for  weeks  the  hill- 
fox  and  the  mountain-hare  may  not  drink  at 
the  frozen  tarns,  the  moor-pastures  may  be 

125 


The  Sons  of  the  North  Wind 

lost  to  deer  and  sheep,  and  only  the  ptarmi- 
gan survive  in  the  waste  white  places :  for  a 
week  or  two  the  boughs  of  the  oak  and  chest- 
nut, the  plumes  of  the  spruce  and  hemlock, 
the  tresses  of  the  larch  and  birch,  may  bend 
with  the  unmelting  snowfall.  But,  at  the 
worst,  it  is  never  long  before  a  wind  out  of 
the  south,  or  from  the  wet  mouth  of  the  west, 
breathes  upon  the  fens,  and  the  silence  is  be- 
come a  faint  stir,  a  whisper,  a  rustle;  till  the 
moveless  steel  is  become  a  film,  to  be  gathered 
some  noon,  like  May-dew  from  the  thickets, 
the  autumn-frost  from  the  whin  and  gorse. 
It  is  never  long  till  the  meh-ing  of  the  sheep 
is  again  a  sweet  lamentation  upon  the  hill- 
pastures,  or  till  the  fox  dusts  the  last  snow 
from  his  root-roof  in  the  wintry  glen,  or  till 
the  jay  screams  in  the  woodlands  as  from  fir- 
plume  and  oak-bough  slip  or  fall  with  heavy 
thump  their  unloosened  burthens.  True,  the 
Sons  of  the  North  Wind,  as  in  the  Highland 
West  and  North  we  know  so  well  and  often 
to  such  bitter  cost,  may  come  to  us  with  sud- 
denness of  tempest,  raging  in  thdr  mysterious 
wrath,  and  may  long  endure,  trampling  upon 
life,  as,  in  the  old  legend,  the  gigantic  phan- 
tom-men of  the  Northern  Lights  trample  the 
souls  of  the  dead  condemned  to  Ifurin,  the 
Gaelic  hell.  Every  year  there  is  sorrow  upon 
126 


The  Sons  of  the  North  Wind 

some  strath,  grief  in  the  glens,  lamentation  by 
hillside  and  moor.  From  the  Ord  of  Suther- 
land to  Land's  End  there  may  be  a  tale  of 
disaster.  Snow-drift,  snow-storm,  snow-fog 
may  paralyse  communications  and  bring  deep 
anxiety  or  irremediable  grief  to  an  incalcula- 
ble number.  Yet,  we  must  admit  that  even 
our  severest  winter  is  but  a  fierce  reminder 
of  times  long  past  for  us,  the  times  of  the 
mail-coach,  the  rude  cart,  the  mountain-pony, 
that  the  worst  we  ever  have  is  tolerable  be- 
side the  bleak  wretchedness  of  Pomerania, 
the  frightful  cold  of  Esthonia,  the  death-in- 
life  of  Muscovy — to  say  nothing  of  lands  still 
more  wild  and  remote. 

One  cannot  say,  here  is  snow  at  its  loveli- 
est, here  is  ice  in  a  unique  beauty.  Frozen 
lochs  by  moonlight,  frozen  fens  under  the 
pale  azure  of  cloudless  noons,  dark  winding 
rivers,  lifeless  seemingly  in  the  grip  of  frost, 
traversed  by  starshine  under  overhanging 
boughs,  lagoons  where  the  dark-blue  or  steel- 
blue  ice  mirrors  the  drifting  cloud  or  the  fly- 
ing skater,  village-ponds,  canals,  the  water- 
ways of  towns  and  cities,  in  all,  in  each,  the 
radiant  miracle  is  evident.  Like  moonshine, 
this  beauty  of  ice  or  snow  may  be  omnipres- 
ent. If  it  inhabits  the  wilderness,  it  is  fulfilled 
also  in  the  streets  of  cities.  Who  has  not 
127 


The  Sons  of  the  North  Wind 

looked  out  on  the  sordid  thoroughfares  of  a 
town,  and  seen  the  poor  ignoble  disarray  of 
chimney-tops  and  slated  roofs  and  crude  an- 
gles and  ornamentations  take  on  a  new  and 
entrancing  aspect,  so  that  even  the  untidy 
shops  and  tawdry  dwellings  assume  a  crown 
of  loveliness,  and  the  long,  dull,  perspectives 
of  monotonous  roads  might  be  the  trampled 
avenues  about  the  gates  of  fairyland?  The 
most  sordid  hamlet  in  the  dreariest  manufac- 
turing-region may,  suddenly,  awake  to  a  dawn 
so  wonderful  in  what  it  reveals  that  the  vil- 
lagers might  well  believe,  as  in  the  old  folk- 
tale, that  Christ  had  passed  that  way  in  the 
night  and  left  the  world  white  and  husht, 
stainlessly  pure.  But,  of  course,  we  have 
each  of  us  our  preferences.  Some  love  best 
to  see  the  long  swelling  reaches  of  ploughed 
lands  covered  with  new  fallen  snow  not  too 
heavy  to  hide  the  wave-like  procession  of  the 
hidden  furrows.  Some  love  best  to  look  on 
wide  interminable  wolds,  a  solitude  of  un- 
broken whiteness,  without  even  the  shadow 
of  a  cloud  or  the  half-light  of  a  grey  sky: 
some,  upon  familiar  pastures  now  changed  as 
though  in  the  night  the  fields  had  receded  into 
the  earth  and  the  fields  of  another  world 
had  silently  sunk  into  their  place:  some,  upon 
mountain-slopes,  on  whose  vast  walls  the 
128 


The  Sons  of  the  North  Wind 

shadows  of  wheeling  hawks  and  curlews  pass 
like  pale  blue  scimetars:  some,  on  woodlands, 
where  from  the  topmost  elm-bough  to  the 
lowest  fir-plume  or  outspread  bough  of  cedar 
the  immaculate  soft  burthens  miraculously 
suspend.  For  myself  —  after  the  supreme 
loveliness  of  snowy  mountain-ranges  at  dawn 
or  sunset  or  moon-glow — I  am  most  en- 
tranced by  snow  in  a  pine-forest.  The  more 
so  if,  as  in  one  my  mind  recreates  for  me  as 
I  write,  there  are  glades  where  I  can  come  to 
a  rock  whence  an  overleaning  white  hill  may 
be  seen  as  though  falling  out  of  heaven,  with 
white  mountains  beyond,  white  shoulders 
lapsing  on  white  shoulders,  white  peaks  rising 
beyond  white  peaks,  white  crests  fading  into 
further  snowy  crests,  and,  nearer,  it  may  be, 
glens  sinking  into  glens,  no  longer  a  sombre 
green,  but  as  though  stilled  avalanches  await- 
ing a  magician's  unloosening  spell.  Once, 
just  there,  in  just  such  a  place,  I  saw  a  won- 
derful sight.  The  January  frosts  had  gone, 
and  February  had  come  in  with  the  soft  sigh- 
ing of  a  wind  out  of  the  south.  The  snows 
faded  like  morning-mists.  But  after  three 
days  the  north  wind  came  again  in  the  night. 
At  dawn  it  veered,  and  a  light  snow  fell  once 
more,  then  thick  and  moist  and  flaky,  and  by. 
noon  had  changed  to  rain.  But  an  hour  or 
129 


The  Sons  of  the  North  Wind 

so  later  the  polar  breath  once  more  came  over 
the  brows  of  the  hills,  and  with  midwinter 
intensity.  The  rain  was  frozen  on  every 
bough,  on  every  branch,  on  every  spray,  on 
every  twig,  on  every  leaf,  on  every  frond  of 
bracken,  on  every  spire  of  reed,  on  every 
blade  of  grass.  The  world  had  become  cased 
in  shining  ice,  crystalline,  exquisite  in  radiant 
beauty,  ineffable,  as  in  a  trance,  the  ecstasy 
of  the  Unknown  Dreamer.  At  sundown  the 
vast  orb  of  blood-red  flame  sank  over  the 
glens  and  burned  among  the  aisles  of  the  for- 
est. Looking  at  the  ice-mailed  wilderness  of 
bole  and  bough  and  branch  between  me  and 
the  sun  I  saw  a  forest  of  living  fire,  wherein, 
as  a  wind  stirred  and  threw  sudden  shadows, 
phantoms  of  flame  moved  to  and  fro,  or 
stood,  terrible  children  of  light,  as  though  en- 
tranced, as  though  listening,  as  though  look- 
ing on  Life  or  on  Death.  When  at  last  the 
flame  was  all  gathered  up  out  of  the  west, 
and  an  aura  of  faint  rose  hung  under  the 
first  glittering  stars,  an  extraordinary  ocean 
of  yellow  spread  from  the  horizons  serrated 
with  immense  mauve  peninsulas  and  long 
narrow  grass-green  lagoons.  But  the  mass 
of  the  western  firmament  was  yellow,  from 
the  orange-yellow  of  lichen  and  the  orange- 
red  of  the  dandelion  to  the  faint  vanishing 
130 


The  Sons  of  the  North  Wind 

yellows  of  cowslip  and  primrose.  How  lovely 
then  were  the  trees  which  had  been  set  on  fire 
by  the  unconsuming  flames  of  the  sunset: 
what  a  fairyland,  now,  of  delicate  amber  and 
translucent  topaz.  What  mysterious  colon- 
nades, what  avenues  of  lovely  light!  And 
then,  later,  to  turn,  and  see  the  chill  grey-blue 
ice-bound  trees  behind  one  filling  slowly  with 
moonshine,  as  the  immensity  of  ocean  fills, 
wave  after  wave,  at  moonrise,  when  a  cloud 
is  slowly  uplifted  by  mysterious  withdrawing 
airs !  Then,  truly,  was  Dreamland  no  longer 
a  phantasy  of  sleep,  but  a  loveliness  so  great 
that,  like  deep  music,  there  could  be  no  words 
wherewith  to  measure  "it,  but  only  the  breath- 
less unspoken  speech  of  the  soul  upon  whom 
has  fallen  the  secret  dews. 


ST.   BRIGET   OF  THE   SHORES 

I  have  heard  many  names  of  St.  Briget, 
most  beloved  of  Gaelic  saints,  with  whom  the 
month  of  February  is  identified  .  .  .  the 
month  of  "  Bride  min,  gentle  St.  Bride  "... 
Brighid  boidheach  Muime  Chriosd,  Bride  the 
Beautiful,  Christ's  Foster  Mother  .  .  .  but 
there  are  three  so  less  common  that  many 
even  of  my  readers  familiar  with  the  High- 
land West  may  not  know  them.  These  are 
"  the  Fair  Woman  of  February,"  "  St.  Bride 
of  the  Kindly  Fire,"  and  "  St.  Bride  (or 
Briget)  of  the  Shores."  They  are  of  the 
Isles,  and  may  be  heard  in  some  of  the  sgcu- 
lachdan  gaidhealach,  or  Gaelic  tales,  still  told 
among  seafaring  and  hill  folk,  where  the 
curse  of  cheap  ignoble  periodicals  is  un- 
known and  books  are  rare.  True,  in  several 
of  the  isles  .  .  .  Colonsay,  Tiree,  the  Outer 
Hebrides  ..."  St.  Bride  of  the  Shores  "  is 
not  infrequent  in  songs  and  seasonal  hymns, 
for  when  her  signals  are  seen  along  the  grey 
beaches,  on  the  sandy  machars,  by  the  mea- 
dow path,  the  glen-track,  the  white  shore-road, 

132 


St.  Briget  of  the  Shores 

the  islanders  know  that  the  new  year  is  dis- 
closed at  last,  that  food,  warmth,  and  glad- 
ness are  coming  out  of  the  south.  As  "  the 
Fair  Woman  of  February,"  though  whatever 
other  designation  St.  Bride  goes  by,  she 
is  often  revealed.  Her  humble  yellow  fires 
are  lit  among  the  grasses,  on  the  shore-ways, 
during  this  month.  Everywhere  in  the  Gaelic 
lands  "  Candlemas-Queen "  is  honoured  at 
this  time.  Am  Fheill  Bhride,  the  Festival  of 
St.  Briget,  was  till  recently  a  festival  of  joy 
throughout  the  west,  from  the  Highland  Line 
to  the  last  weedy  shores  of  Barra  or  the 
Lews :  in  the  isles  and  in  the  remote  High- 
lands, still  is. 

It  is  an  old  tale,  this  association  of  St. 
Briget  with  February.  It  goes  further  back 
than  the  days  of  the  monkish  chroniclers  who 
first  attempted  to  put  the  disguise  of  verbal 
Christian  raiment  on  the  most  widely-loved 
and  revered  beings  of  the  ancient  Gaelic  pan- 
theon. Long  before  the  maiden  Brigida 
(whether  of  Ireland  or  Scotland  matters  lit- 
tle) made  her  fame  as  a  "  daughter  of  God  " ; 
long  before  to  Colum  in  lona  or  to  Patrick 
"  the  great  Cleric "  in  Ireland  "  Holy  St. 
Bride"  revealed  in  a  vision  the  service  she 
had  done  to  Mary  and  the  Child  in  far-away 
Bethlehem  in  the  East;  before  ever  the  first 

133 


St.  Brigct  of  the  Shores 

bell  of  Christ  was  heard  by  startled  Druids 
coming  across  the  hills  and  forest  lands  of 
Gaul,  the  Gaels  worshipped  a  Brighde  or 
Bride,  goddess  of  women,  of  fire,  of  poetry. 
When,  to-day,  a  Gaelic  islesman  alludes  to 
Briget  of  the  Songs,  or  when  a  woman  of 
South  Uist  prays  to  Good  St.  Bride  to  bless 
the  empty  cradle  that  is  soon  to  be  filled,  or 
when  a  shennachie  or  teller  of  tales  speaks  of 
an  oath  taken  by  Briget  of  the  Flame,  they 
refer,  though  probably  unconsciously,  to  a 
far  older  Brighid  than  do  they  who  speak 
with  loving  familiarity  of  Muime  Chriosd, 
Christ's  Foster  Mother,  or  Brighid  -  nam  - 
Bratta,  St.  Bride  of  the  Mantle.  They  refer 
to  one  who  in  the  dim,  far-off  days  of  the 
forgotten  pagan  world  of  our  ancestors  was 
a  noble  and  great  goddess.  They  refer  to 
one  to  whom  the  women  of  the  Gael  went 
with  offerings  and  prayers,  as  went  the 
women  of  ancient  Hellas  to  the  temples  of 
Aphrodite,  as  went  the  Syrian  women  to  the 
altars  of  Astarte,  as  went  the  women  of 
Egypt  to  the  milk-fed  shrines  of  Isis.  They 
refer  to  one  whom  the  Druids  held  in  honour 
as  a  torch  bearer  of  the  eternal  light,  a 
Daughter  of  the  Morning,  who  held  sunrise 
in  one  hand  as  a  little  yellow  flame,  and  in 
the  other  held  the  red  flower  of  fire  without 

134 


St.  Brigct  of  the  Shores 

which  men  would  be  as  the  beasts  who  live 
in  caves  and  holes,  or  as  the  dark  Fomor  who 
have  their  habitations  in  cloud  and  wind  and 
the  wilderness.  They  refer  to  one  whom  the 
bards  and  singers  revered  as  mistress  of 
their  craft,  she  whose  breath  was  a  flame, 
and  that  flame  song:  she  whose  secret  name 
was  fire  and  whose  inmost  soul  was  radiant 
air,  she  therefore  who  was  the  divine  imper- 
sonation of  the  divine  thing  she  stood  for, 
Poetry. 

"  St.  Bride  of  the  Kindly  Fire,"  of  whom 
one  may  hear  to-day  as  "  oh,  just  Bhrighde 
mm  Muim  (gentle  St.  Bride  the  Foster 
Mother),  she  herself  an'  no  other,"  is  she, 
that  ancient  goddess,  whom  our  ancestors 
saw  lighting  the  torches  of  sunrise  on  the 
brows  of  hills,  or  thrusting  the  quenchless 
flame  above  the  horizons  of  the  sea:  whom 
the  Druids  hailed  with  hymns  at  the  turn  of 
the  year,  when,  in  the  season  we  call  Feb- 
ruary, the  firstcomers  of  the  advancing 
Spring  are  to  be  seen  on  the  grey  land  or  on 
the  grey  wave  or  by  the  grey  shores :  whom 
every  poet,  from  the  humblest  wandering 
singer  to  Oisin  of  the  Songs,  from  Oisin  of 
the  Songs  to  Angus  Og  on  the  rainbow  or  to 
Midir  of  the  Under-world,  blessed,  because 
of  the  flame  she  put  in  the  heart  of  poets  as 

135 


St.  Brigct  of  the  Shores 

well  as  the  red  life  she  put  in  the  flame  that 
springs  from  wood  and  peat.  None  forgot 
that  she  was  the  daughter  of  the  ancient  God 
of  the  Earth,  but  greater  than  he,  because  in 
him  there  was  but  earth  and  water,  whereas 
in  her  veins  ran  the  elements  of  air  and  fire. 
Was  she  not  born  at  sunrise?  On  the  day 
she  reached  womanhood  did  not  the  house 
wherein  she  dwelled  become  wrapped  in  a 
flame  which  consumed  it  not,  though  the 
crown  of  that  flame  licked  the  high  unburn- 
ing  roof  of  Heaven?  In  that  hour  when,  her 
ancient  divinity  relinquished  and  she  reborn 
a  Christian  saint,  she  took  the  white  veil,  did 
not  a  column  of  golden  light  rise  from  her 
head  till  no  eyes  could  follow  it  ?  In  that  mo- 
ment when  she  died  from  earth,  having  taken 
mortality  upon  her  so  as  to  know  a  divine  re- 
surrection to  a  new  and  still  more  enduring 
Country  of  the  Immortal,  were  there  not 
wings  of  fire  seen  flashing  along  all  the  shores 
of  the  west  and  upon  the  summits  of  all 
Gaelic  hills?  And  how  could  one  forget  that 
at  any  time  she  had  but  to  bend  above  the 
dead,  and  her  breath  would  quicken,  and  a 
pulse  would  come  back  into  the  still  heart, 
and  what  was  dust  would  arise  and  be  once 
more  glad. 

The  Fair  Woman  of  February  is  still  loved, 

136 


St.  Briget  of  the  Shores 

still  revered.  Few  remember  the  last  fading 
traditions  of  her  ancient  greatness:  few, 
even,  know  that  she  lived  before  the  coming 
of  the  Cross :  but  all  love  her,  because  of 
her  service  to  Mary  in  Her  travail  and  to 
the  newborn  Child,  and  because  she  looks 
with  eyes  of  love  into  every  cradle  and 
puts  the  hand  of  peace  on  the  troubled 
hearts  of  women :  and  all  delight  in  her  re- 
turn to  the  world  after  the  ninety  days  of 
the  winter-sleep,  when  her  heralds  are  mani- 
fest. 

What,  then,  are  the  insignia  of  St.  Briget 
of  the  Shores?  They  are  simple.  They  are 
the  dandelion,  the  lamb,  and  the  sea-bird, 
popularly  called  the  oyster-opener.  From 
time  immemorial,  this  humble,  familiar  yel- 
low plant  of  the  wayside  has  been  identified 
with  St.  Bride.  To  this  day  shepherds,  on 
Am  Fheill  Bhrighde,  are  wont  to  hear  among 
the  mists  the  crying  of  innumerable  young 
lambs,  and  this  without  the  bleating  of  ewes, 
and  so  by  that  token  know  that  Holy  St. 
Bride  has  passed  by,  coming  earthward  with 
her  flock  of  the  countless  lambs  soon  to  be 
born  on  all  the  hillsides  and  pastures  of  the 
world.  Fisher  folk  on  the  shores  of  the  west 
and  on  the  far  isles  have  gladdened  at  the  first 
prolonged  repetitive  whistle  of  the  oyster- 

137 


St.  Brigct  of  the  Shores 

opener,  for  its  advent  means  that  the  hosts  of 
the  good  fish  are  moving  towards  the  welcom- 
ing coasts  once  more,  that  the  wind  of  the 
south  is  unloosened,  that  greenness  will  creep 
to  the  grass,  that  birds  will  seek  the  bushes, 
that  song  will  come  to  them,  and  that  every- 
where a  new  gladness  will  be  abroad.  By 
these  signs  is  St.  Briget  of  the  Shores 
known.  One,  perhaps,  must  live  in  the  re- 
mote places,  and  where  wind  and  cloud,  rain 
and  tempest,  great  tides  and  uprising  floods 
are  the  common  companions  of  day  and  night, 
in  order  to  realise  the  joy  with  which  things 
so  simple  are  welcomed.  To  see  the  bright 
sunsweet  face  of  the  dandelion  once  more — 
an  dealan  Dhe,  the  little  flame  of  God,  am 
bearnan  Bhrighde,  St.  Bride's  forerunner  — 
what  a  joy  this  is.  It  comes  into  the  grass 
like  a  sunray.  Often  before  the  new  green 
is  in  the  blade  it  flaunts  its  bright  laughter 
in  the  sere  bent.  It  will  lie  in  ditches  and 
stare  at  the  sun.  It  will  climb  broken  walls, 
and  lean  from  nooks  and  corners.  It  will 
come  close  to  the  sands  and  rocks,  some- 
times will  even  join  company  with  the  sea- 
pink,  though  it  cannot  find  footing  where 
later  the  bind-weed  and  the  horned  poppy, 
those  children  of  the  seawind  who  love  to 
be  near  and  yet  shrink  from  the  spray  of 

138 


St.  Briget  of  the  Shores 

the  salt  wave,  defy  wind  and  rain.  It  is 
worthier  the  name  "  Traveller's  Joy "  than 
the  wild  clematis  of  the  autumnal  hedge- 
rows :  for  its  bright  yellow  leaps  at  one 
from  the  roadside  like  a  smile,  and  its  home- 
liness is  pleasant  as  the  gladness  of  playing 
children. 

It  is  a  herald  of  Spring  that  precedes  even 
the  first  loud  flute-like  calls  of  the  missel- 
thrush.  When  snow  is  still  on  the  track  of 
the  three  winds  of  the  north  it  is,  by  the  way- 
side, a  glad  companion.  Soon  it  will  be 
everywhere.  Before  long  the  milk-white 
sheen  of  the  daisy  and  the  moon-daisy, 
the  green-gold  of  the  tansy,  the  pale  gold 
of  the  gorse  and  the  broom,  the  yellow 
of  the  primrose  and  wild  colchicum,  of  the 
cowslip  and  buttercup,  of  the  copse-loving 
celandine  and  meadow-rejoicing  crowsfoot, 
all  these  yellows  of  first  spring  will  soon  be 
abroad :  but  the  dandelion  comes  first.  I  have 
known  days  when,  after  midwinter,  one  could 
go  a  mile  and  catch  never  a  glimpse  of  this 
bright  comrade  of  the  ways,  and  then  sud- 
denly see  one  or  two  or  three,  and  rejoice 
forthwith  as  though  at  the  first  blossom  on 
the  blackthorn,  at  the  first  wild-roses,  at  the 
first  swallow,  at  the  first  thrilling  bells  of  the 
cuckoo.  We  are  so  apt  to  lose  the  old 

139 


St.  Briget  of  the  Shores 

delight  in  familiar  humble  things.  So  apt  to 
ignore  what  is  by  the  way,  just  because  it  is 
by  the  way.  I  recall  a  dour  old  lowland  gar- 
dener in  a  loch-and-hill-set  region  of  Ar- 
gyll, who,  having  listened  to  exclamations  of 
delight  at  a  rainbow,  muttered,  "  Weel,  I 
juist  think  naethin  ava'  o'  thon  rainbows 
...  ye  can  see  one  whenever  ye  tak  the 
trouble  to  look  for  them  hereaboots."  He 
saw  them  daily,  or  so  frequently  that  for  him 
all  beauty  and  strangeness  had  faded  from 
these  sudden  evanescent  Children  of  Beauty. 
Beauty  has  only  to  be  perceptible  to  give  an 
immediate  joy,  and  it  is  no  paradoxical  ex- 
travagance to  say  that  one  may  receive  the 
thrilling  communication  from  "  the  little 
flame  of  God "  by  the  homely  roadside  as 
well  as  from  these  leaning  towers  built  of  air 
and  water  which  a  mysterious  alchemy  reveals 
to  us  on  the  cloudy  deserts  of  heaven.  "  Man 
is  surprised,"  Emerson  says,  "  to  find  that 
things  near  and  familiar  are  not  less  beauti- 
ful and  wondrous  than  things  remote."  Cer- 
tainly no  Gaelic  lover  of  St.  Bride's  Flower, 
of  the  Flower  of  February,  but  rejoices  to 
see  its  welcome  face  after  the  snow  and  sleet 
of  winter  have  first  sullenly  receded,  if  only 
for  a  time,  and  to  know  that  St.  Bride  of  the 
Shores  wears  it  at  her  breast,  and  that  when 
140 


St.  Briget  of  the  Shores 

she  throws  it  broadcast  the  world  is  become 
a  green  place  again  and  the  quickening  sun- 
light a  gladsome  reality. 

In  these  desolate  far  isles  where  life  is  so 
hard,  where  the  grey  winds  from  the  north 
and  east  prevail  for  weeks  at  a  time  on  the 
grey  tempestuous  seas,  and  where  so  much 
depends  on  such  small  things — a  little  drift- 
wood, a  few  heaps  of  peat,  a  few  shoal  of 
fish  now  of  one  kind  now  of  another,  a  few 
cartloads  of  seaweed,  a  rejoicing  sound  is 
that  in  truth  when  the  Gille-Bhride  is  heard 
crying  along  the  shores.  Who  that  has  heard 
its  rapid  whirling  cry  as  it  darts  from  haunt 
to  haunt  but  will  recognise  its  own  testimony 
to  being  "  Servant  of  Breed  "  (the  common 
pronunciation  of  the  Gaelic  Brighid  or  Bride) 
— for  does  it  not  cry  over  and  over  again 
with  swift  incessant  iterance,  Gilly  -  breed, 
gilly-breed,  gilly-breed,  gilly-breed,  gilly- 
breed. 


"White  may  my  milking  be, 

White  as  thee; 

Thy  face  is  white,  thy  neck  is  white, 
Thy  hands  are  white,  thy  feet  are  white, 
For  thy  sweet  soul  is  shining  bright — 
O  dear  to  me, 
O  dear  to  see, 
St.  Briget  White! 
141 


St.  Brigct  of  the  Shores 

Yellow  may  my  butter  be, 

Firm,  and  round : 
Thy  breasts  are  sweet, 
Firm,  round,  and  sweet, 
So  may  my  butter  be : 
So  may  my  butter  be,  O 

Briget  Sweet! 
Safe  thy  way  is,  safe,  O 

Safe,  St.  Bride: 

May  my  kye  come  home  at  even, 
None  be  fallin',  none  be  leavin', 
Dusky  even,  breath-sweet  even, 
Here,  as  there,  where  O 

St.  Bride  thou 

Keepest  tryst  with  God  in  heav'n, 
Seest  the  angels  bow 
And  souls  be  shriven — 
Here,  as  there,  'tis  breath-sweet  even 

Far  and  wide — 
Singeth  thy  little  maid 
Safe  in  thy  shade 

Briget,  Bride!" 

When  the  first  lambs  appear,  many  are  the 
invocations  among  the  Irish  and  Hebridean 
Gaels  to  good  St.  Bride.  At  the  hearth-side, 
too,  the  women,  carding  wool,  knitting,  tell- 
ing tales,  singing  songs,  dreaming  —  these 
know  her  whether  they  name  her  in  thought, 
or  have  forgotten  what  was  dear  wisdom  to 
their  mothers  of  old.  She  leans  over  cradles, 
and  when  babies  smile  they  have  seen  her  face. 
When  the  cra'thull  swings  in  the  twilight,  the 
142 


St.  Briget  of  the  Shores 

slow  rhythm,  which  is  music  in  the  mother's 
ear,  is  the  quiet  clapping  of  her  hushing 
hands.  St.  Bride,  too,  loves  the  byres  or  the 
pastures  when  the  kye  are  milked,  though 
now  she  is  no  longer  "the  Woman  of  Feb- 
ruary," but  simply  "  good  St.  Bride  of  the 
yellow  hair." 


143 


THE    HERALDS    OF    MARCH 

Under  this  heading  I  had  meant  to  deal 
with  the  return  of  the  Plover  and  Lapwing, 
having  in  mind  a  Galloway  rhyme, 

"Whaup  Whimbrel,  an'  Plover, 
Whan  these  whustle  the  worst  o'  t's  over! " 

But  on  consideration  it  was  evident  that 
March  has  so  complicated  an  orchestral  pre- 
lude that  the  name  could  hardly  be  given  to 
any  one  group  of  birds.  Does  not  another 
rhyme  go, 

"The  Lavrock,  the  Mavis, 

The  Woodlark,  the  Plover, 

March  brings  them  back 

Because  Winter  is  over." 

But  March  brings  back  so  many  birds! 
There  is  another  bird-rhyme  .  .  . 

"When    the  Song-Thrush  is  ready  to  laugh, 
Ye'll  hear  the  Woodlark  an'  the  Wheatear  an'  the 
Chaff." 

Well,  the  Song-Thrush  has  been  "  ready  to 

laugh  "  a  good  while  back,  now :  his  "  laugh- 

144 


The  Heralds  of  March 

ter"  has  already  whirled  the  flute-notes  of 
Spring,  amid  branches  swelling  to  leaf-break, 
but  not  yet  at  the  greening.  The  Chiff- 
Chaff  has  been  heard  on  many  a  common,  or 
on  the  ridge  of  a  stone-dyke,  or  calling  from 
the  blackthorn  thickets.  The  Wheatear  has 
by  this  time  delighted  many  a  superstitious 
yokel  who  has  caught  his  first  glimpse  of  it 
sitting  on  a  grassy  tuft,  or  on  a  low  spray 
of  gorse  or  juniper,  or  depressed  him  sorely 
if  he  has  come  upon  it  for  the  first  time 
when  seen  perched  on  a  stone.  But  all  three 
are  birds  which  are  with  us  long  before  the 
real  Spring  is  come.  With  the  missel-thrush 
on  the  elmbole,  the  song-thrush  in  the  copses, 
the  blackbird  calling  from  the  evergreens, 
it  does  not  follow,  alas !  that,  as  in  the  fairy- 
tale, the  north  wind  has  become  a  feeble  old 
man  and  the  east  wind  a  silly  old  wife.  Frost 
and  snow  and  sleet,  rain  and  flood,  and  the 
dull  greyness  of  returned  winter,  may  only 
too  likely  succeed  these  blithe  heralds,  have 
so  succeeded,  this  year,  as  we  know  to  our 
cost.  There  was  jubilation  in  some  places 
at  January-end  because  of  the  early  sing- 
ing of  the  larks,  which  here  and  there 
had  been  heard  soon  after  the  New  Year ; 
but  those  who  rejoiced  untimely  at  the  ad- 
vent of  spring-weather  must  have  forgot  the 

H5 


The  Heralds  of  March 

north-country  proverb,  "  As  long  as  the  lave- 
rock sings  before  Candlemas  it  will  greet 
after  it." 

The  lark  and  the  blackbird  are,  in  truth, 
such  irresponsible  singers,  have  such  glad  ir- 
repressible hearts,  that  they  will  sing  in  the 
dead  of  winter,  if  only  the  wind  slides  through 
a  windless  air  and  the  sunshine  is  unclouded. 
Tens  of  thousands  have  gone  oversea,  but 
thousands  remain ;  and  these  are  not  to  be 
chilled  into  silence  if  but  the  least  excuse  be 
given  for  the  unsealing  of  the  founts  of  joy. 
In  green  Decembers  one  may  hear  the 
merle's  notes  fluting  down  the  wet  alleys  as 
though  Christmas  were  still  a  long  way  off; 
but  the  wary  will  recall  another  north-country 
saying  akin  to  that  just  quoted  concerning 
the  laverock  ..."  When  the  blackbird  sings 
before  Christmas  she  will  cry  before  Candle- 
mas." 

So  now  I  shall  leave  the  Tribe  of  the 
Plover  to  a  succeeding  article,  and,  speak- 
ing of  the  skylark  and  his  spring  comrades, 
allude  to  that  mysterious  March  wayfaring 
of  the  winged  people  which  is  so  enthrall- 
ing a  problem  in  the  psychology  of  bird- 
life. 

The  whole  problem  of  Migration  is  still  a 
mystery,  but  an  enhancement  of  this  mystery 
146 


The  Heralds  of  March 

is  in  the  irregularity  and  incompleteness  of 
the  working  out  of  this  all  but  universal  in- 
stinct, this  inscrutable  rhythmic  law.  Both 
the  skylark  and  the  blackbird,  for  example, 
are  migratory  birds,  and  yet  larks  and 
merles  by  the  thousand  remain  in  our  north- 
lands  through  the  winter,  and  even  come  to 
us  at  that  season.  The  skylark  in  particular 
puzzles  the  ornithologist.  While  certain  birds 
appear  and  disappear  with  an  astonishing 
regularity,  as  though  they  heard  the  pealing 
of  aerial  chimes  afar  off  and  knew  the  bells 
of  home  .  .  .  the  swallow,  for  example ;  or, 
again,  the  tiny  gold-crested  wren,  in  some 
parts  called  "  the  woodcock-pilot "  because 
in  two  or  at  most  three  days  after  its  ap- 
pearance the  first  woodcocks  are  invariably 
seen  .  .  .  there  are  others,  like  the  song- 
thrush,  which  will  pass  away  in  the  great 
migratory  clouds  that  like  withdrawing  veils 
every  autumn  carry  the  winged  clans  over- 
sea; which  will  pass  so  absolutely  that  for  a 
hundred  miles  not  one  of  its  kind  will  be  ob- 
served, not  even  a  straggler :  and  yet,  in  some 
other  direction,  others  will  be  seen  weeks 
later  and  perhaps  even  through  the  winter. 
We  are  all  familiar  with  the  homestay  of  the 
redbreast,  and  many  people  believe  that  it 
is  not  a  migrant  because  of  its  frequency 

147 


The  Heralds  of  March 

about  our  garden-ways  even  in  the  hardest 
winter:  and  yet,  in  incalculable  myriads,  the 
redbreast  migrates  as  far  south  as  the  Sahara, 
and  its  sweet  home-song  of  the  north  may 
be  heard  in  Greece,  by  the  banks  of  the  Nile, 
throughout  Palestine  even,  from  the  cedars 
of  Lebanon  to  the  valleys  about  Jerusa- 
lem. 

It  is  the  skylark,  however,  more  than  any 
other  bird  which  so  often  upsets  rules  and 
calculations.  Even  people  who  do  not  ob- 
serve the  ways  of  birds  must  be  struck  by 
the  numbers  of  larks  which  may  be  met  with 
in  the  course  of  several  midwinter  walks,  by 
the  occasional  outbreak  of  brief  song,  even, 
though  snow  be  upon  the  wolds  and  a  grey 
wind  blow  through  the  sere  leaves  of  the  oak- 
coppice  or  among  the  desolate  hedgerows; 
must  be  the  more  struck  by  this,  or  by  men- 
tion of  it  on  the  part  of  others,  when  they 
read  of  the  hundreds,  sometimes  thousands, 
of  dead  larks  found  on  nights  of  storm  or 
bitter  frost,  on  the  rocks  below  lighthouses, 
along  the  great  lines  of  migration  during  the 
season  of  the  vast  inscrutable  ebb  or  of  the 
as  vast  and  inscrutable  vernal  arrival.  In- 
calculable hosts  leave  our  shores  every 
autumn,  and  along  the  bleak  fen-lands  by 
wave-set  lighthouses,  on  isles  such  as  Ushant 
148 


The  Heralds  of  March 

or  Heligoland,  thousands  of  wings  flutter  and 
fail ;  and  the  host  passes  on ;  and  the  sea- 
wave,  the  fierce  gull,  the  shore-hawk,  all  the 
tribe  of  the  owl,  all  the  innumerable  foes 
which  prey  upon  the  helpless,  give  scant 
grace  to  the  weaklings  and  the  baffled  and 
weary.  But  why  should  all  this  immense 
congregation  have  listened  to  the  ancestral 
cry,  and  from  meadow  and  moor  and  the 
illimitable  dim-sea  of  the  fallowlands  come 
singly  and  in  flocks  and  in  immense  herds 
and  in  a  cloudlike  multitude,  as  sheep  at  the 
cry  of  the  herdsman,  as  hounds  at  the  long 
ululation  of  a  horn,  while  thousands  of  their 
clan  remain  deaf  to  the  mysterious  Voice, 
the  imperative  silent  mandate  from  oversea? 
Of  these,  again,  countless  numbers  merely 
move  to  another  region,  and  mayhap  some 
cross  the  salt  straits  only  to  return;  or  as 
many,  it  may  be,  leave  not  at  all  the  familiar 
solitudes,  and  at  most  show  by  cloudy  flights 
and  wild  and  fluctuating  gyrations  the  heri- 
tage of  blind  instinct,  which,  if  it  cannot  be 
satiated  by  far  pilgrimage,  must  at  least  shake 
these  troubled  hearts  with  sudden  inexplica- 
ble restlessness.  It  is  calculated,  again,  that 
myriads  of  skylarks  merely  use  our  coasts  as 
highways  on  their  journey  from  the  far  south 
to  the  far  north  ...  in  this,  too,  exemplify- 
149 


The  Heralds  of  March 

ing  another  strange  law  or  manifestation  of 
the  mystery  of  migration,  that  the  birds  which 
move  farthest  north  in  their  vernal  arrival 
are  those  which  penetrate  farthest  south 
when  they  turn  again  upon  the  autumnal 
wind  of  exile.  Naturalists  have  proved,  how- 
ever, that  countless  hordes  of  skylarks  act- 
ually arrive  from  Northern  Europe  to  winter 
in  our  country.  Are  these  birds  moved  by  a 
different  instinct  from  that  which  impels  the 
majority  of  their  kind?  Have  they,  through 
generations  following  one  another  in  the 
path  of  an  accident,  forgotten  the  sunlands 
of  the  common  ancestral  remembrance,  and, 
having  found  Britain  less  snowbound  and 
frostbound  than  the  wastes  of  Esthonia  and 
Pomerania,  been  content,  when  driven  before 
the  icy  east  wind,  to  fare  no  farther  than  our 
bleak,  and  yet,  save  in  the  worst  winters,  rel- 
atively habitable  inlands?  Again,  naturalists 
have  observed  a  like  movement  hitherward 
in  winter  from  Central  Europe.  There  may 
be  observed  in  the  early  spring  as  regular 
an  emigration  as,  on  a  perhaps  not  vaster 
scale,  an  incalculable  immigration.  Appar- 
ently, most  if  not  all  of  the  myriads  of  sky- 
larks which  are  undoubtedly  with  us  through- 
out the  winter  are  these  immigrants  from 
Northern  and  Central  Europe.  Those  who 


The  Heralds  of  March 

come  in  February  and  in  still  greater  num- 
bers in  March  and  April  (and  the  later  the 
arrivals  the  farther  north  the  goal,  it  is  said) 
are  the  "  strayed  revellers  "  from  the  South, 
the  homebred  birds  home  again.  In  our  re- 
mote Hebrides  the  nesting  season  is  hardly 
over  before  the  island-bred  skylarks,  so  late 
in  coming,  are  on  the  Great  South  Road 
once  more.  What  with  the  habitual  two  and 
the  not  infrequent  three  broods  raised  in  a 
single  season,  particularly  in  Southern  Eng- 
land, South-West  Scotland,  and  Ireland,  and 
the  enormous  influx  of  aliens  from  Northern 
and  Central  Europe,  our  skylark  population 
is  at  its  highest,  not,  as  most  people  might 
think,  in  May,  or  even  about  the  season  of 
the  autumnal  equinox,  but  at  the  beginning 
of  November,  when  already  the  great  tides 
of  migration  have  ebl?ed.  Another  puzzling 
problem  is  the  rhythmic  regularity  of  the  ar- 
rivals and  departures  of  the  incomers  and 
the  outgoers.  For,  while  the  latter  will  not 
take  the  high-road  of  the  upper  air  till  night- 
fall or  at  least  until  dusk,  the  former  travel 
by  day:  and  the  goings  and  comings  are  so 
timed,  or  to  observation  appear  so  timed, 
that  about  four  o'clock  on  a  late  October  day 
the  first  cohort  of  the  invaders  may  in  the 
wide  lonely  desert  overhead  pass  the  first 


The  Heralds  of  March 

caravans  of  the  exiles.  In  March,  again,  the 
two  currents  may  once  more  meet :  the  home- 
bred birds  are  on  their  return,  the  aliens  are 
on  the  wing  for  the  hill-pastures  and  the 
vales  and  uplands  of  their  native  countries. 
This  will  account  for  how,  say  in  the  Heb- 
rides, one  observer  will  chronicle  the  de- 
parture of  the  skylarks  before  Summer-end, 
at  the  early  close  there  of  the  nesting  season, 
and  how  another,  not  less  accurate,  will  note 
the  presence  weeks  later  of  larks  in  appar- 
ently as  great  a  number  as  ever.  The  island- 
ers have  gone,  to  seek  the  south :  the  new- 
comers from  Scandinavia  have  taken  their 
place.  But  here  also,  as  elsewhere,  the  con- 
ditions of  the  weather  will  be  more  potent 
than  even  the  summons  of  the  spirit  of  migra- 
tion :  a  severe  frost  will  for  a  time  clear  a 
whole  region  of  the  tufted  birdeens,  a  pro- 
longed frost  will  drive  them  away  from  that 
region  for  the  winter. 

The  Lark,  then,  so  often  apostrophised  as 
the  first  voice  of  Spring,  is  by  no  means 
specifically  the  Herald  of  March.  When  we 
see  his  brown  body  breasting  the  air-waves 
of  the  March  wind,  it  may  not  be  the  wel- 
come migrant  from  the  South  we  see,  with 
greenness  in  his  high  aerial  note  and  the 
smell  of  hay  and  wild  roses  in  the  o'er- 

152 


The  Heralds  of  March 

come  of  his  song,  but  a  winter-exile  from 
a  far  mountain-vale  in  Scandinavia  or  from 
the  snowbound  wastes  of  Courland  or  West- 
phalia. 

The  Woodlark,  the  Chiff-Chaff,  and  the 
rest,  all  are  heralds  of  March.  But  as  we 
identify  certain  birds  with  certain  seasons 
and  certain  qualities  ...  as  the  Swallow  with 
April,  and  the  Cuckoo  with  May,  and  the 
Dove  with  peace  ...  so  we  have  come  to 
think  of  the  Mavis  and  the  Merle,  but,  above 
all,  of  the  Skylark  as  the  true  heralds  of 
March,  the  month  when  the  Flutes  of  Pan 
sound  from  land's  end  to  land's  end,  for  all 
that  tempest  and  flood,  sleet  and  the  polar 
blast  and  the  bitter  wind  of  the  east,  may 
ravage  the  coverts  of  the  winged  clans. 

To  write  of  all  the  birds  who  come  back 
to  us  in  the  Spring,  even  so  early  as  the  front 
of  March,  would  be,  here,  a  mere  catalogue, 
and  then  be  incomplete.  For  the  hidden 
places  in  the  woods,  in  the  meadows,  in  the 
hedgerows,  on  the  moors,  in  the  sandy  dunes, 
in  the  hollowed  rocks,  on  the  ledges  over 
green  water  and  on  the  wind-scooped  fore- 
heads of  cliffs  and  precipices ;  everywhere, 
from  the  heather-wilderness  on  the  unsnowed 
hills  to  the  tangled  bent  on  the  little  wind- 
swept eyot  set  in  the  swing  of  the  tides, 

153 


The  Heralds  of  March 

the  secret  homes  are  waiting,  or  are  al- 
ready filled,  and  glad  with  that  everlasting 
and  unchanging  business  of  the  weaving 
anew  of  life  which  has  the  constancy  of 
sunrise,  the  rhythmic  certitude  of  day  and 
night. 

The  spiritual  secret  of  our  delight  in  the 
joyousness  of  the  lark's  song,  or  in  that  of 
mavis  or  merle,  is  because  the  swift  music 
is  a  rapture  transcending  human  utterance. 
There  is  not  less  joy  in  the  screech  of  the 
jay,  in  the  hoarse  cry  of  the  cormorant,  in 
the  scream  of  the  gannet  poised  like  a  snow- 
flake  two  thousand  feet  above  the  turbulent 
surge  of  blue  and  white,  or  green  and  grey, 
to  its  vision  but  a  vast  obscurity  of  calm 
filled  with  phantom  life,  a  calm  moveless  seen 
from  that  great  height,  wrinkled  only  with 
perplexing  interplay  of  wave  and  shadow. 
These  have  their  joy,  and  to  the  open  ear 
are  joy;  not  less  than  the  merle  singing 
among  wet  lilac,  the  mavis  calling  from  the 
swaying  poplar,  the  lark  flinging  the  largesse 
of  his  golden  music  along  the  high  devious 
azure  roads.  Can  one  doubt  that  this  is  so 
.  .  .  that,  listening  with  the  inward  ear,  we 
must  hold  as  dear  the  wail  of  the  curlew,  the 
mournful  cry  of  the  lapwing,  when  on  the 
hill-slope  or  in  the  wild  grass  these  call  re- 

154 


The  Heralds  of  March 

joicingly  in  life  and  love  and  the  mute  ecstasy 
of  implicit  duty? 

As  long,  however,  as  we  impose  our  own 
needs  and  our  own  desires  on  the  indifferent 
tribes  of  the  earth  and  air,  so  long  shall  we 
take  this  or  that  comrade  of  the  elements  and 
say  it  is  the  voice  of  Peace,  or  War,  or 
Love,  or  Joy.  March,  we  say,  is  the  month 
of  gladness.  A  new  spirit  is  awake,  is  abroad. 
The  thrush  and  the  blackbird  are  our  clarions 
of  rejoicing.  The  lark,  supremely,  is  our  lyric 
of  joy. 

Joy,  the  poet  tells  us,  is  the  Mother  of 
Spring,  and  of  Joy  has  it  not  been  said  that 
there  is  no  more  ancient  God?  What  fitter 
symbol  for  this  divine  uplift  of  the  year  than 
this  bird  whose  ecstasy  in  song  makes  the 
very  word  Spring  an  intoxication  in  our  ears  ? 
We  have  a  Gaelic  legend  that  the  first  word 
of  God  spoken  to  the  world  became  a  lark 
...  the  eternal  joy  translated  into  a  mo- 
ment's ecstasy.  But  farther  back  has  not 
Aristophanes  told  us  that  the  lark  existed, 
not  only  before  the  green  grass  where  it 
nests  or  the  blue  lift  into  which  it  soars,  but 
before  Zeus  and  Kronos  themselves,  before 
the  Creation,  before  Time.  It  is  but  a  sym- 
bol of  the  divine  Joy  which  is  Life :  that  most 
ancient  Breath,  that  Spirit  whose  least  thought 

155 


The  Heralds  of  March 

is  Creation,  whose  least  motion  is  Beauty, 
whose  least  glance  is  that  eternal  miracle 
which  we,  seeing  dimly  and  in  the  rhythmic 
rise  of  the  long  cadence  of  the  hours,  call  by 
a  word  of  outwelling,  of  measureless  efflu- 
ence, the  Spring. 


I56 


THE   TRIBE   OF   THE   PLOVER 

In  the  preceding  paper  I  alluded  to  a 
Galloway  rhyme — 

"Whaup,  Whimbrel,  an'  Plover, 
Whan  these  whustle  the  worst  o'  't  's  over." 

By  this  time  the  neatherd  by  Loch  Ken 
and  the  shepherd  among  the  wilds  of  Kirk- 
cudbright, like  their  kin  from  the  Sussex 
downs,  to  the  last  sliabh  or  maol  in  Suther- 
land, may  repeat  the  rhyme  with  safety. 
"  The  worst  o'  't  's  over."  For  to-day  the 
curlews  cry  above  the  moors,  the  whimbrel's 
warning  note  echoes  down  the  long  sands  o' 
Solway,  and  everywhere,  from  the  salt  bent 
by  the  coasts  to  the  loneliest  inlands,  the 
lapwing  wails.  The  Tribe  of  the  Plover  is 
in  the  land  once  more,  and  so  Spring  is  with 
us.  Not,  perhaps,  the  Spring  of  the  poets, 
who  look  (as  Ailil  in  the  old  Celtic  tale) 
under  boughs  of  white  blossom  to  where  the 
sunlight  moves  like  a  fawn  of  gold  in  a  wind- 
less lartd,  where  the  songs  of  birds  turn  to 
flowers,  and  where  flowers  change  in  the  twi- 

157 


The  Tribe  of  the  Plover 

lights  of  dawn  into  singing  birds.  Not  thus 
does  Spring  come  to  us  in  the  north.  The 
black-headed  gull  screaming  on  the  east  wind, 
restless  before  his  long  flight  to  the  wilder- 
ness and  the  grassy  homes  of  the  mating 
season :  the  hoodie-crow,  weary  of  the  south, 
heard  on  grey  mornings  when  sleet  whips  the 
uplands:  the  troubled  fieldfares,  eager  for 
lands  oversea:  the  curlews  crying  along  the 
Anglian  fens  and  lamenting  over  Solway 
Moss:  the  mallard  calling  to  his  mate  in  the 
chill  waters:  the  shadow  of  harrier  and  pere- 
grine from  Surrey  upland  to  the  long  braes  of 
Lammermuir — these,  rather,  are  the  signals 
of  our  bleak  northern  Spring.  What  though 
the  song-thrush  and  the  skylark  have  long 
sung,  though  the  wheatear  and  chiff-chaff 
have  been  late  in  coming,  though  the  first 
swallows  have  not  had  the  word  passed  on 
by  the  woodpecker,  and  somewhere  in  the 
glens  of  Greece  and  Sicily  the  cuckoo 
lingers?  How  often  the  first  have  called 
Spring  to  us,  and,  while  we  have  listened,  the 
wind  has  passed  from  the  south  to  the  north 
and  the  rains  have  become  sleet  or  snow :  how 
often  the  missel-thrush  has  rung-in  the  tides 
of  blossom,  and  the  woods  have  but  grown 
darker  with  gloom  of  the  east  while  the  first 
yellow  clans  along  the  hedgerows  have  been 

158 


The  Tribe  of  the  Plover 

swept  by  hail.  How  often,  again,  the  wind 
of  the  west  has  been  fragrant  with  cowslip 
and  ox-eye,  with  daffodil  and  wallflower, 
with  the  pungent  growing-odours  of  barbery 
and  butcher's  broom  and  the  unloosening 
larch,  when,  indeed,  the  sallow-blooms  have 
put  on  their  gold,  and  the  green  woodpecker 
is  calling  his  love-notes  in  the  copses,  and 
yet  the  delaying  swallow  has  not  been  seen 
north  of  the  Loire  or  where  the  Loiny  winds 
between  Moret  and  the  woods  of  Fontaine- 
bleau.  How  often  the  wild-rose  has  moved 
in  first-flame  along  the  skirts  of  hornbeam- 
hedge  or  beech-thicket,  or  the  honeysuckle 
begun  to  unwind  her  pale  horns  of  ivory  and 
moongold,  and  yet  across  the  farthest  elm- 
tops  to  the  south  the  magic  summons  of  the 
cuckoo  has  been  still  unheard  in  the  windless 
amber  dawn,  or  when,  as  in  the  poet's  tale, 
the  myriad  little  hands  of  Twilight  pull  the 
shadows  out  of  the  leaves  and  weave  the 
evening  dark.  But  when  the  cry  of  the 
plover  is  abroad  we  know  that  our  less  ideal 
yet  hardly  less  lovely  and  welcome  Spring 
is  come  at  last :  that  Winter  is  old  and  broken 
and  shuffling  north,  clinging  to  the  bleak  up- 
lands and  windygates :  and  this,  even  though 
Summer  tarries  still  among  the  fields  of 
France. 

159 


The  Tribe  of  the  Plover 

Because  of  their  association  with  solitary 
and  waste  places  it  is  not  strange  that  these 
harbingers  of  Swallow-time  should  every- 
where have  an  evil  repute.  Even  amid  the 
unimaginative  Sussex  or  Wilts  peasants,  the 
cry  of  the  curlew,  the  wail  of  the  lapwing, 
forebode  sorrow,  cover  a  vague  menace : 
heard,  at  least,  at  dusk  or  at  night,  or  in  the 
grey  gloaming  at  the  edge  of  day. 

The  Cornish  or  Devon  moorlander  has 
many  wild  tales  of  the  whimbrel,  whose  swift- 
repeated  whistle  hurtling  suddenly  in  lonely 
places  has  given  rise  to  innumerable  legends 
of  the  Seven  Whistlers,  the  Demon  Hunts- 
men, the  Hunted  Souls.  In  lona  and  along 
the  Earraid  of  Mull,  where  the  whimbrel  or 
"  little  curlew "  is  rarely  heard  till  May, 
though  it  is  generally  called  Guilbinnach,  a 
diminutive  of  the  Gaelic  name  of  the  curlew, 
Guilbin  (pronounced  sometimes  Kooky-pin  or 
guley-pin  and  sometimes  gwilley-piri),  a  com- 
pound word  signifying  wailing  music,  I  have 
heard  it  called  Guilbhrdn  (Kwillyvrone),  Wail 
of  Sorrow,  and  again  Keenyvas  or  Death- 
Cry,  and  once,  either  in  a  tale  or  poem,  by 
the  singular  name  Guilchaismeachd,  the  Wail 
of  Warning.  Any  lowland  cottar,  from  west 
of  Lammermuir  to  east  of  Ballantrae,  will 
"  ken  a  wheen  strange  tales  o'  the  whaup," 
1 60 


The  Tribe  of  the  Plover 

as  the  curlew  is  commonly  called  north  of 
the  Tweed  and  south  of  the  Highland  Line: 
and  in  some  parts  it  is  not  only  the  children 
who  shudder  at  its  cry  in  lonely  places  at 
dusk,  fearing  "  the  bogle  wi'  the  lang  neb  " 
like  a  pair  of  tongs,  emissary  of  the  Evil 
One,  who  gave  this  bird  his  long  curved  beak 
so  that  in  the  dark  he  might,  like  tongs  lift- 
ing a  stray  coal  or  a  nightjar  snatching  a 
wandering  moth,  carry  off  wrongdoers,  un- 
repentant sinners,  truants,  and  all  naughty 
children  generally.  As  for  the  lapwing, 
though  more  familiar  than  the  curlew,  and 
for  many  of  us  associated  only  with  pastures 
and  pleasant  wilds,  in  the  countries  of  the 
Gael  dark  things  are  whispered  of  the  Ad- 
harccm-luachrach,  or  Little  Horn  of  the  Rushes 
.  .  .  thus  poetically  called  from  the  pretty 
tuft  of  the  male  -weep  or  peaseweep,  curving 
like  a  horn  over  the  delicately  poised  head, 
and  from  the  bird's  fondness  for  nesting  in 
rushy  places  or  among  tangled  grasses.  Is 
he  not  said  to  be  one  of  the  bitter  clan  who 
mocked  on  the  day  of  the  Crucifixion,  and 
so  was  made  homeless  for  ever,  with  a  cry 
that  should  be  for  ever  like  the  cry  of  wan- 
dering sorrow?  It  is  of  little  avail  to  say 
that  love  among  the  rushes  is  as  sweet  as 
elsewhere,  that  the  wilderness  can  be  home, 
161 


The  Tribe  of  the  Plover 

and  that  the  wailing  of  repentant  souls  may 
be  no  more  than  angry  vituperations  against 
the  hoodie-crow  or  laughing-gull  or  other 
marauders  after  lapwing-eggs.  Is  the  weep 
not  a  spirit  of  the  waste  that  was  once 
human,  but  lost  his  soul,  and  so  can  never 
reach  heaven  nor  yet  dwell  on  earth,  but 
must  night  and  day  be  restless  as  the  sea, 
and  wail  the  long  hours  away  from  grey  dawn 
to  moonrise,  from  darkness  to  the  paling  of 
the  stars?  So  they  say,  they  who  know:  and 
who  know  with  the  unshakable  surety  of  the 
unlettered  peasant?  In  the  Gaelic  imagina- 
tion the  lapwing  is  something  stranger  and 
wilder  still :  a  bird  of  the  ancient  world,  of  the 
dispossessed  gods,  nameless  in  truth  because 
in  truth  a  god  nameless  and  homeless.  The 
Gaelic  poet  hears  in  its  lament  the  lamenta- 
tion of  what  is  gone  never  to  come  again, 
of  what  long  since  went  away  upon  the  wind, 
of  what  is  going  away  on  the  wind:  and  he 
has  called  the  weep  the  Birds  of  the  Sorrow- 
ful Past.  Is  not  the  lapwing  the  bird  of 
Dalua,  that  unknown  mysterious  god,  that 
terrible  Shadow  who  is  the  invisible,  inaudi- 
ble, secret,  and  dread  divinity  of  weariness, 
separation,  gloom,  sadness,  decay,  desolation, 
madness,  despair? 

It  is  not  only  in  our  own  land  that   the 
162 


The  Tribe  of  the  Plover 

lapwing  and  all  the  tribe  of  the  plover  bear 
so  evil  a  repute.  Not  always  thus,  however: 
for  in  some  parts  of  Germany  this  plover,  I 
do  not  know  why,  is  called  the  Virgin  Mary's 
Dove,  and  is  greeted  with  welcome.  Even  in 
Argyll  there  is  a  lost  or  confused  kindly 
legend,  for  sometimes  when  children  run 
along  the  moorland  mocking  the  Pibhinn 
(pee-veen  .  .  .  the  Gaelic  equivalent  of  the 
lowland  peaseweep  and  the  southern  pee- 
weet}  they  cry 

" Welcome  back,  welcome  back,  Pee-veen,  Pee-veen! 
But  keep  the  wind  and  the  rain  behind  your  tail, 
Or  you'll  never  see  the  fields  of  heaven  again!  ..." 

or  words  to  that  effect.  In  the  East  the 
Mohammedan  women  have  a  beautiful  name 
for  this  bird  .  .  .  the  Sister  of  the  Brother: 
and,  says  the  authority  whence  in  some  for- 
gotten reading  I  took  this  note,  "  when  these 
women  hear  the  cry  in  the  evening,  they  run 
from  their  houses  and  throw  water  in  the  air, 
that  the  bird  may  use  it  to  assuage  the  pain 
of  the  bum  on  the  top  of  the  head,  still 
marked  by  some  black  feathers."  This  is  in 
allusion  to  an  oriental  legend  that  the  lap- 
wing was  once  a  princess.  This  princess  had 
a  passionate  love  for  a  brother  who  had  long 

163 


The  Tribe  of  the  Plover 

been  absent,  and  when  one  day  she  heard 
that  he  was  on  his  return  and  close  at  hand 
and  weary,  she  snatched  a  bowl  of  hot  milk 
from  the  fire  and  hastened  to  meet  him.  But 
an  evil-wisher,  knowing  her  great  love  and 
how  she  would  not  rest  till  she  found  her 
brother,  had  misinformed  her,  and  for  all  the 
pain  on  her  head  caused  by  the  heated  bowl, 
she  ran  now  this  way  and  now  that,  con- 
tinually crying  Brother!  0  Brother!  Hours 
passed,  and  then  days,  and  week  after  week 
and  month  after  month  the  girl  vainly  sought 
her  loved  one.  At  last,  feeling  her  strength 
ebbing,  she  cried  aloud  to  Allah.  Allah, 
moved  by  compassion,  gave  her  wings  and 
changed  her  into  a  lapwing  or  black-plover, 
the  better  to  accomplish  her  purpose.  Hence, 
when  the  little  brown  children  on  the  desert 
or  on  the  sun-scorched  ways  of  the  East  look 
up  and  see  the  lapwings  wheeling  overhead 
in  long  circling  flights  and  sudden  dashes, 
they  hear,  in  the  wailing  voices,  either  the 
long  yearning  or  the  sudden  eager  hope  in 
the  cry  which  to  their  ears  sounds  as  Brother! 
O  Brother! 

Perhaps  the  German  name  of  the  Virgin 
Mary's  Dove  is  merely  a  variant  of  the  Swed- 
ish folk-legend  concerning  the  lapwing.    The 
tale    goes   that   this   bird   was   once   one   of 
164 


The  Tribe  of  the  Plover 

Mary's  handmaidens,  but  lost  place  and  hon- 
our because  of  her  theft  of  a  pair  of  scissors. 
The  punishment  was  transformation  into  a 
bird  with  a  forked  scissors-tail,  and  to  go  out 
across  the  fjords  and  above  all  the  meadows 
and  pastures  and  keep  crying  incessantly 
Tyvit-Tyvit-Tyvit  (i.e.,  I  stole  them !  I  stole 
them !).  I  think,  however,  I  have  heard  or 
read  the  same  story  in  connection  with  the 
wagtail.  In  his  interesting  book  on  the 
Manners  and  Customs  of  the  Russian  People, 
Mr.  Ralston  has  the  following  Slavonic 
plover-legend.  When  God  had  created  the 
earth,  and  wished  to  supply  it  with  seas  and 
lakes  and  rivers,  He  ordered  the  birds  to  con- 
vey the  waters  to  their  appointed  places.  All 
obeyed  except  the  lapwing,  whose  reason  for 
this  indolence  and  impiety  was  that  it  had  no 
need  of  seas,  lakes,  or  rivers,  to  slake  its 
thirst.  At  that  the  Lord  waxed  wroth,  and 
forbade  it  and  its  posterity  ever  to  approach 
a  sea  or  stream,  and  that  it  might  quench 
its  thirst  only  with  that  water  which  re- 
mains in  hollows  and  among  stones  after 
rain.  So  from  that  time  this  sorrowful 
plover  has  never  ceased  its  wailing  cry  of 
Peet-peet!  (i.e.,  Drink!  Drink!).  In  another 
northern  book  (Thiel's  Danish  Traditions, 
vol.  ii.)  there  are  two  lapwing-legends  not 

165 


The  Tribe  of  the  Plover 

less     homely    than    the    Russian    and    the 
Swedish. 

When  Christ,  says  one,  was  a  bairn,  He 
took  a  walk  one  day  and  came  to  an  old  crone 
who  was  busy  baking.  She  said  she  would 
give  Him  a  new  cake  for  His  trouble,  if  He 
would  go  and  split  her  a  little  wood  for  the 
oven.  Christ  did  as  she  wanted,  and  the  old 
wife  put  aside  a  small  bit  of  dough  for  the 
promised  cake.  When  the  batch  was  drawn 
from  the  oven,  however,  she  saw  to  her  sur- 
prise and  chagrin  that  the  wee  bit  cake  was 
equally  large  with  the  rest.  So  again  she 
broke  off  a  small  bit  of  dough ;  but  again  the 
same  thing  happened.  Hereupon  she  broke 
out  with,  "  That's  a  vast  oure-muckle  cake 
for  the  likes  o'  thee;  thee's  get  thy  cake  an- 
ither  time."  At  this  injustice  Christ  was 
angered,  so  He  said  to  the  old  crone,  "  I 
split  your  wood  as  you  asked  me,  and  you 
would  not  give  me  the  little  cake  you  prom- 
ised. Now  you  in  turn  shall  go  and  cleave 
wood,  and  that,  too,  as  long  as  the  world 
shall  last !  "  And  with  that  Our  Lord  turned 
her  into  a  vipa  (a  weep).  "  So  the  weep 
fares  betwixt  heaven  and  earth  as  long  as  the 
world  lasts ;  and  fare  where  she  will  she  says 
no  other  words  than  Klyf  vcdl  Klyf  ved! " 
(i.e.,  Cleave  wood  !  Cleave  wood !). 
166 


The  Tribe  of  the  Plover 

The  other  Danish  plover-tale  given  by 
Thiel  is  one  of  the  familiar  Crucifixion  le- 
gends. While  Christ  still  hung  upon  the 
Cross,  three  birds  came  flying  towards  Cal- 
vary, the  Styrkham  (the  Stork),  the  Svalham 
(the  Swallow),  and  the  Pun-ham  (Pee-weet). 
As  they  flew  overhead  each  cried  a  cry.  The 
stork  cried,  Styrk  ham!  Styrk  ham!  (i.e., 
Strengthen  Him !),  and  so  has  this  bird  called 
ever  since,  and  been  under  God's  blessing 
and  man's  care.  The  swallow  cried,  Sval 
ham!  Sval  ham!  {i.e.,  Cool  or  refresh  Him!), 
and  so  is  evermore  known  by  that  name,  and 
likewise  is  loved  by  man  and  guided  by  God. 
But  the  weep  wheeled  about  the  Cross, 
shrieking  derisively,  Pun  ham!  Pun  ham!  (i.e., 
Pine  Him,  make  Him  suffer!),  and  so  is  not 
only  accursed  by  men  from  then  till  now,  but 
is  under  God's  ban  till  the  Last  Day,  after 
which  the  lapwing's  wail  will  never  be  heard 
again. 

Although  Guilbinn,  or  Wailing  Music,  is, 
as  I  have  said,  the  common  Gaelic  name  for 
the  Curlew,  as  the  Whaup  in  the  lowlands, 
it  is  also  often  called  the  Crann-toch,  the  long- 
beaked  one,  or  Coulter-neb,  as  they  say  in 
Dumfries  and  Galloway.  Of  the  mythical 
origin  of  the  name  Crann-toch  (a  very  ob- 
vious designation,  and  needing  no  mythical 
167 


The  Tribe  of  the  Plover 

legend  one  would  think)  I  remember  hear- 
ing a  year  or  so  ago  from  a  boatman  of 
Lismore  a  wild  and  romantic  legend,  but  it 
is  too  long  to  quote  now.  Few  Gaelic  tales, 
few  poems,  in  which  are  not  to  be  heard  the 
voices  of  the  wind  or  the  sea  or  the  wailing 
curlew.  We  have  perhaps  no  bird  more  wild 
and  solitary:  a  Highland  saying  places  it 
with  the  herons  and  wild-geese.  "  When  a 
man  has  shot  six  herons,  six  wild-geese,  and 
six  curlews,  he  may  call  himself  a  sports- 
man." 

When  the  Golden  Plover,  or  Grey  Plover 
as  he  is  sometimes  called,  wheels  in  Spring 
above  the  fallowlands  of  the  North  the 
ploughman  hears  in  his  cry  Plough  wecl! 
Sow  weel!  Harrow  wcel!  This  beautiful  bird 
— of  whom  no  poet  has  written  a  finer  line 
than  Burns  in 

"The  deep-toned  plover  grey,  wild  whistling  on  the 
hill"— 

is  not  exempt  from  the  common  tradition  of 
uncanniness.  He,  too,  is  classed  with  the 
dreaded  "  Seven  Whistlers  ":  and  from  Corn- 
wall to  Iceland  he  is  often  vituperated  as  one 
of  these,  or  as  of  the  spectral  pack  called 
Gabriel's  Hounds,  or  as  of  Odin's  Phantom 
Chase.  I  spoke  of  a  name  I  had  heard  in 
168 


The  Tribe  of  the  Plover 

lona  and  Mull  for  the  whimbrel,  but  appli- 
cable also  to  any  plover  or  curlew  .  .  .  the 
Guilchaismeachd  or  Wail  of  Warning,  the 
Alarm  Bird  so  to  say :  and  this  repute  is  held 
by  the  plover  in  many  mining  parts  of  Eng- 
land, where  it  is  said  that  the  miners  will  not 
descend  a  pit  if  the  "  Whistlers  "  be  heard 
lamenting  overhead.  To  this  day  there  are 
many  regions  not  only  in  our  own  country 
but  abroad  where  the  plovers  are  called  the 
Wandering  Jews,  from  an  old  legend  that  the 
first  of  the  clan  were  the  transmuted  souls  of 
those  Jews  who  assisted  at  the  Crucifixion. 
An  old  woman  who  gave  me  some  plovers' 
eggs  told  me  in  all  good  faith  that  the  feadag 
(the  Gaelic  name,  equivalent  to  flute-note  or 
mellow  whistle)  neither  ate  nor  drank  but 
fed  upon  the  wind  ...  a  superstition  said  to 
have  been  almost  universal  in  the  Middle 
Ages. 

As  for  many  of  us,  surely  they  are  birds  of 
our  love.  The  cry  of  the  curlew  on  the  hill, 
the  wail  of  the  lapwing  in  waste  places,  have 
not  these  something  of  the  same  enthralling 
spell,  the  same  entrancing  call — the  summons 
to  the  wilderness,  whether  that  be  only  to 
solitude,  or  to  wild  loneliness,  or  to  the 
lonelier  solitudes,  the  dim  limitless  wilder- 
ness of  the  imagination — that  the  wind  has, 
169 


The  Tribe  of  the  Plover 

at  night,  coming  with  rain  through  woods, 
or  that  the  sea  has,  heard  in  inland  hollows, 
or  when  athwart  a  long  shore  or  among 
fallen  rocks  the  tide  rises  on  the  breast-swell 
of  coming  storm?  They  call  us  to  the  wild. 


170 


THE   AWAKENER   OF   THE 
WOODS 

The  Spirit  of  Spring  is  abroad.  There  is 
no  one  of  our  island  coasts  so  lone  and  for- 
lorn that  the  cries  of  the  winged  newcomers 
have  not  lamented  down  the  wind.  There 
is  not  an  inland  valley  where  small  brown 
birds  from  the  South  have  not  penetrated, 
some  from  Mediterranean  sunlands,  some 
from  the  Desert,  some  from  the  hidden 
homes  on  unknown  isles,  some  from  beyond 
the  foam  of  unfamiliar  shores.  Not  a  back- 
water surely  but  has  heard  the  flute  of  the 
ouzel,  or  the  loud  call  of  the  mallard.  The 
wren,  that  sweet  forerunner  of  "  the  little 
clan  of  the  bushes "  as  we  say  in  Gaelic, 
clann  bheag'  nam  preas,  the  robin,  the  mavis, 
the  merle,  have  been  heard  in  every  coppice 
and  wildgrowth  from  the  red  combes  of  the 
winding  Dart  to  the  granite-ledges  by  the 
rushing  Spey.  From  the  last  Cornish  up- 
land to  the  last  brown  moor  on  the  Ord  of 
Sutherland  the  curlew  and  the  lapwing  have 
wheeled  with  wailing  cry  or  long  melancholy 
171 


The  Awakener  of  the  Woods 

flutelike  whistle.  The  gorse,  whose  golden 
fires  have  been  lit,  has  everywhere  heard  the 
prolonged  sweet  plaintive  note  of  the  yellow- 
hammer.  From  the  greening  boughs  the 
woodpeckers  call. 

The  tides  of  Blossom  have  begun  to  flow. 
The  land  soon  will  be  inundated.  Already 
a  far  and  wide  forethrow  of  foam  is  flung 
along  the  blackthorn  hedges.  Listen  .  .  . 
that  chaffinch's  blithe  song  comes  from  the 
flowering  almond !  .  .  .  that  pipit's  brief  lay 
fell  past  yonder  wild-pear !  In  the  meadows 
the  titlarks  are  running  about  looking  in 
the  faces  of  the  daisies,  as  children  love  to 
be  told.  On  the  fenlands  and  mosses  the 
windy  whimper  of  the  redshank  is  heard  like 
the  cry  of  a  phantom :  and  like  a  "  bogle," 
too,  is  the  perturbing  drumming  of  the  snipe 
falling  swiftly  on  sloping  wings  back  to  the 
marsh. 

The  shores,  the  meadows,  the  uplands,  on 
each  there  is  a  continual  rumour.  It  is  the 
sound  of  Spring.  Listen  .  .  .  put  your  ear 
to  the  throbbing  earth  that  is  so  soon  to 
become  the  green  world :  you  will  hear  a 
voice  like  the  voice  which  miraculously 
evades  in  the  hollow  curves  of  a  shell.  Faint, 
mysterious,  yet  ever  present,  a  continual 
rhythm.  Already  that  rhythm  is  become  a 
172 


The  Awakener  of  the  Woods 

cadence:  the  birds  chant  the  strophes,  flower 
and  blossom  and  green  leaf  yield  their  sub- 
tler antiphones,  the  ancient  yet  ever  young 
protagonist  is  the  heart  of  man.  Soon  the 
cadence  will  be  a  song,  a  paean.  The  hour 
of  the  rose  and  the  honeysuckle  will  come, 
the  hour  of  the  swallow  hawking  the  grey 
gnat  above  the  lilied  stream,  the  hour  when 
the  voice  of  the  cuckoo  floats  through  ancient 
woods  rejoicing  in  their  green  youth,  that 
voice  which  has  in  it  the  magic  of  all  springs, 
the  eternal  cry  of  the  renewal  of  delight. 

True,  one  may  as  yet  more  universally  see 
the  feet  of  Spring,  or  the  blossom-touch  of 
her  hands,  in  the  meadows  and  by  the  shores, 
than  in  the  woods.  She  passes  by  the  hedge- 
rows or  along  the  pastures,  and  her  trail  has 
the  sheen  of  gold.  Do  not  the  celandine  and 
the  flaming  dandelion,  the  pale  cowslip  and 
delicate  crowsfoot,  the  jonquil  and  daffodil, 
the  yellow  of  the  broom  and  the  bee-loved 
gorse,  everywhere  show  it?  She  goes  by  the 
upland  meadows,  and  touches  the  boughs  of 
the  wild-apple  or  leaning  pear,  stoops  by  the 
quince  or  the  wild-cherry,  and  the  white  foam 
of  the  miraculous  wind  that  is  in  the  hollow 
of  her  hand  is  left  upon  the  branches.  The 
slim  gean  at  the  edge  of  the  woodland 
catches  the  spray,  the  twisted  crab  is  an  old 

173 


The  Awakener  of  the  Woods 

woman  suddenly  become  a  lovely  girl  cream- 
white  and  rose-flusht.  Or  she  goes  down  the 
island-shores,  or  by  the  brackened  coasts  of 
inland  lochs,  or  along  the  overhanging  brows 
of  streams,  or  where  brooks  glide  between 
grassy  banks;  or,  facing  northward,  she 
wanders  where  the  hill-burn  falls  from  ledge 
to  ledge,  or  leaps  past  the  outswung  roots  of 
mountain-ash  or  birch,  or  steals  between  peaty 
grasses  where  the  wren  has  her  nest  in  the 
pendent  bramble  and  the  greenfinch  calls 
across  the  fern.  And  wherever  she  goes  the 
yellow  iris  is  left  by  her  feet,  the  yellow-white 
willow-catkins  have  become  musical  with  a 
myriad  bees,  dust  of  gold  has  fallen  into  the 
milk-white  snow  of  the  countless  clans  of  the 
daisy,  tides  of  an  invisible  flood  have  foamed 
along  the  hawthorns,  the  wild  crocus  has 
shone  like  the  spear  of  Pisarr,  the  buttercup 
is  brimmed  with  golden  wine,  and  even  the 
kingcup-ingots  are  melted  in  the  waters — for 
whence  else  can  come  that  flowing  gold 
which  is  blent  with  yonder  moving  emerald 
that  is  as  the  breath  of  the  grass,  yonder 
floating  azure  as  of  drowned  speedwells, 
yonder  wandering  violet,  child  of  shadow  and 
the  wind,  yonder  mysterious  phantom  of  pale 
mauve  which  tells  that  a  becalmed  cloud-ship 
drifts  on  the  deeps  of  heaven. 

174 


The  Awakener  of  the  Woods 

Nevertheless  it  is  in  the  woods  that  the 
miracle  may  be  more  intimately  seen.  The 
Presence  perchance  is  not  universally  abroad 
so  much  as  immediately  evident.  A  hand 
touched  that  larch  yonder:  for  why  is  it  so 
suddenly  green,  with  a  greenness  as  of  a  sea- 
wave,  or  as  the  wet  emerald  crystal  one  finds 
on  the  sands  of  lona,  or,  rather,  with  the 
softer,  moister,  the  indescribable  greenness  of 
the  rainbow's  breast  ?  A  foot  leaned  upon  the 
moss  beneath  that  vast  oak,  on  whose  south- 
ern slopes  the  russet  leaves  still  hang  like  a 
multitude  of  bats  along  dark  ragged  cliffs :  for 
why  has  the  cyclamen  suddenly  burned  in  a 
faint  flame,  there ;  why  has  the  sky  suddenly 
come  up  through  the  moss,  in  that  maze  of 
speedwells?  Who  rose,  yonder,  and  passed 
like  a  phantom  westward  ?  Some  one,  surely, 
of  the  divine  race,  for  the  tips  of  the  syca- 
more-boughs have  suddenly  burned  with  a 
bronze-hued  fire.  Who  went  suddenly  down 
that  mysterious  alley  of  dim  columnar  pines, 
stirring  the  untrodden  silent  ways?  For, 
look,  the  air  is  full  of  delicate  golden  dust. 
The  wind-wooer  has  whispered,  and  the  pine- 
tree  has  loved,  and  the  seed  of  the  forests  to 
come  floats  like  summer-dust  along  the  aerial 
highways. 

But  what  of  the  Forest- Awakener  ?     Who 

175 


The  Awakener  of  the  Woods 

is  he?  Her  name,  is  it  known  of  men?  Who 
can  it  be  but  the  Wind  of  the  South,  that 
first-born  of  the  wooing  Year  and  sweetheart 
Spring?  But  what  if  the  name  be  only  that 
of  a  bird  ?  Then,  surely,  it  must  be  the  wood- 
thrush,  or  perchance  the  cushat,  or,  no,  that 
wandering  Summer-herald,  the  Cuckoo !  Not 
the  skylark,  for  he  is  in  the  sunlight,  lost 
above  the  pastures :  not  the  merle,  for  he  is 
flooding  the  wayside  elms  with  ancient  music 
of  ever-young  love :  not  the  blithe  clans  of  the 
Finch,  for  one  and  all  are  gypsies  of  the  open. 
Perchance,  then,  the  Nightingale?  No,  he  is 
a  moon-worshipper,  the  chorister  of  the  stars, 
the  incense-swinger  before  the  altars  of  the 
dawn :  and  though  he  is  a  child  of  the  woods, 
he  loves  the  thickets  also.  Besides,  he  will 
not  come  far  north.  Are  there  not  deep 
woods  of  silence  and  dream  beyond  the  banks 
of  the  Tyne?  Are  there  no  forest  sanctuaries 
north  of  the  green  ramparts  which  divide 
Northumbria  from  the  glens  of  Tweed  and 
the  solitudes  of  the  shadowy  Urr  ?  Are  there 
no  inland  valleys  buried  in  sea-sounding 
woods  beyond  the  green  vale  of  Quair?  Alas, 
the  sweet  Songmaker  from  the  South  does 
not  think  so,  does  not  so  dream.  In  moon- 
reveries  in  the  woods  of  Surrey,  in  starry 
serenades  along  the  lanes  of  Devon,  in  lonely 
I76 


The  Awakener  of  the  Woods 

nocturnes  in  the  shadowy  groves  of  the  New 
Forest,  he  has  no  thought  of  more  vast, 
more  secret  and  impenetrable  woods  through 
which  move  mountain-airs  from  Schiehall- 
ion,  chanting  winds  from  the  brows  of  the 
Grampians:  he  has  no  ancestral  memory  of 
the  countless  battalions  of  the  red  pine 
which  throng  the  wilds  of  Argyll  or  look 
on  the  grey  shoreless  seas  of  the  west,  these 
green  pillars  which  once  covered  the  bar- 
ren braes  of  Balquhidder,  the  desolate  hill- 
lands  of  the  Gregara,  and,  when  the  world 
was  young,  were  wet  with  the  spray  of 
the  unquiet  wastes  wherein  are  set  the  tree- 
less Hebrides. 

No,  in  the  north  at  least,  we  cannot  call 
the  nightingale  the  Forest-Awakener.  In 
truth,  nowhere  in  our  land.  For  he  comes 
late  when  he  comes  at  all.  The  great 
awakening  has  already  happened.  Already 
in  the  south  the  song-thrush,  the  dande- 
lion, the  blackthorn-snow  are  old  tales:  far 
in  Ultima  Thule  to  the  north-west  the  gille- 
bride  has  whistled  the  tidings  to  Gaelic 
ears,  far  in  Ultima  Thule  to  the  north-east 
the  Shetlander  has  rejoiced  in  that  blithest 
thicket-signal  of  spring,  the  tossed  lilt  of  the 
wren. 

It  is  of  the  green  woodpecker  I  speak. 
177 


The  Awakener  of  the  Woods 

We  do  not  know  him  well,  most  of  us: 
but  then  most  of  us  are  alien  to  the 
woods.  Town-dwellers  and  homestayers  know 
little  or  nothing  of  the  secret  signals. 
It  is  only  the  obvious  that  they  note,  and 
seldom  read  in  the  great  Script  of  Nature 
anything  more  than  the  conventional  sig- 
nature of  certain  loved  and  familiar  names 
and  tokens. 

It  was  in  the  Forest  of  Fontainebleau  I 
first  heard  the  green  woodpecker  called  by 
this  delightful  name,  the  Awakener  of  the 
Woods,  le  Reveilleur  de  la  Foret.  My  French 
friend  told  me  it  was  not  a  literary  name,  as 
I  fancied,  but  one  given  by  the  foresters. 
And  how  apt  it  is.  In  the  first  weeks  of 
March — in  the  first  week  of  April,  it  may  be, 
as  the  scene  moves  northward — there  is  no 
more  delightful,  and  certainly  no  more  wel- 
come, sound  than  the  blithe  bugle-call  of  the 
green  woodpecker  calling  through  the  woods 
for  love,  and,  after  long  expectant  pauses,  hear- 
ing love  call  back  in  thrilling  response,  now  a 
flute-note  of  gladness,  now  a  challenging 
clarion-cry.  True,  whether  in  the  vast  forest 
of  Fontainebleau  or  in  our  northern  woods, 
the  woodpecker  is  not  so  readily  to  be  heard 
in  the  inward  solitudes.  He  loves  the  open 
glades,  and  commonly  the  timbered  park-land 
178 


The  Awakener  of  the  Woods 

is  his  favourite  resort.  Still,  save  in  the  deep- 
est and  darkest  woods,  that  delightful  rejoic- 
ing note  is  now  everywhere  to  be  heard  flut- 
ing along  the  sunlit  ways  of  the  wind.  It 
awakes  the  forest.  When  the  voice  of  the 
woodpecker  is  heard  it  is  the  hour  for  Nature 
to  celebrate  her  own  Ides  of  March.  Else- 
where the  song-thrush  and  the  skylark  have 
been  the  first  heralds.  Even  in  the  woods  the 
missel-thrush  may  have  flung  a  sudden  storm 
of  song  out  on  the  cold  tides  of  the  wind 
swaying  the  elm-tops  like  dusky  airweed  of 
the  upper  ocean.  But,  in  the  glades  them- 
selves, in  the  listening  coverts,  it  is  the  call 
of  the  green  woodpecker  that  has  awakened 
the  dreaming  forest. 

And  what  an  ancient  old-world  tale  Picus 
could  tell.  For,  in  the  long  ago,  was  he 
not  Picus  the  antique  Italiot  god?  A  for- 
est-god he  was,  son  of  ancient  Saturn,  and 
himself  the  father  of  that  beautiful  being 
of  the  woods,  Faunus.  And  how  far  he 
wandered  from  Thracian  valley  and  Sabine 
oak-grove  .  .  .  for  in  that  far  northern  Fin- 
land, which  to  the  Latins  was  but  an  un- 
known remote  waste  under  the  star  Septen- 
trion,  he  and  his  son  reappear,  though  now 
his  name  is  Tapio  and  Faunus  is  become 
Nyyrikki  .  .  . 

179 


The  Awakener  of  the  Woods 

"O  Nyyrikki,  mountain-hero, 
Son  of  Tapio  of  forests, 
Hero  with  the  scarlet  headgear, 
Notches  make  along  the  pathway, 
Landmarks  upward  on  the  mountain, 
That  the  hunter  may  not  wander." 

Still  does  Nyyrikki,  or  Pikker  as  he  was  called 
by  the  northmen  long  before  the  Kalevala  was 
wrought  into  Finnish  runes,  make  notches 
along  the  pathways  of  the  woods,  still  the 
huntsman  on  the  hillside  sees  his  signals  on 
the  oak-boles.  Perhaps  to  this  day  the  Es- 
thonian  peasant  offers  in  his  heart  a  prayer  to 
Pikker  the  woodpecker-god,  god  of  thunder 
and  storm,  so  god  too  of  the  glades  and  fields 
where  these  can  devastate — a  prayer  such  as 
that  which  Johann  Gutsloff,  a  Finnish  author 
of  the  seventeenth  century,  cites  as  the  sup- 
plication of  an  old  Esthonian  farmer:  "  .  .  . 
Beloved  Pikker,  we  will  sacrifice  to  thee  an 
ox  with  two  horns  and  four  hoofs,  and  want 
to  beg  you  as  to  our  ploughing  and  sowing 
that  our  straw  shall  be  red  as  copper  and  our 
grain  as  yellow  as  gold.  Send  elsewhere  all 
thick  black  clouds  over  great  swamps,  high 
woods,  and  wide  wastes.  But  give  to  us 
ploughmen  and  sowers  a  fertile  season  and 
sweet  rain." 

In  Gaelic  lands  many  an  old  name  has  been 
180 


The  Awakener  of  the  Woods 

dropped  from  common  use,  because  thus  as- 
sociated with  some  shy  and  yet  never-far 
divinity,  and  so  too  the  Finn  and  the  Esth 
ceased  to  call  the  woodpecker  Pikker  (a  word 
so  strangely  like  Picus)  and  thus  it  is  that 
now  the  peasant  knows  him  only  as  Tikka. 
With  the  Romans,  Picus  the  god  was  figured 
with  a  woodpecker  on  his  head,  and  all  of  us 
who  have  read  Pliny  will  remember  the  great 
store  laid  by  the  auspices  of  Rome  on  the 
flight  and  direction  and  general  procedure  of 
this  forest-traveller.  Recently  a  sculptor,  I 
know  not  of  what  nationality,  exhibited  in 
Paris  a  statue  of  the  Unknown  Pan,  and  on 
his  shoulder  perched  a  woodpecker.  Was 
this  a  reminiscence,  or  ancestral  memory,  or 
the  divining  vision  of  the  imagination?  I 
have  some  fifty  pages  or  more  of  MS.  notes 
dealing  with  the  folklore  and  legendary 
names  and  varying  ways  and  habits  of  the 
fascinating  woodlander,  from  his  Greek  ap- 
pearance as  Pelekas,  the  axe-hewer  (Aristoph- 
anes calls  him  the  oak-striker) — whence  no 
doubt  "  Picus  "  and  "  Pikker  "  and  "  Peek  " 
and  the  rest — to  Latin  Tindareas,  mortal 
father  of  Leda,  to  the  White  Woodpecker,  the 
magic  bird  of  mediaeval  legend,  to  "  der  olle 
Picker,"  the  horrible  laughing  god  of  human 
sacrifice  in  ancient  Prussia,  to  Pak-a-Pak, 
181 


The  Awakener  of  the  IVoods 

"  the  lost  lover  of  the  woman  in  the  oak,"  in 
a  strange  tale  I  heard  once  in  the  woods  of 
Argyll.  But  of  all  this  I  would  recall  to-day 
only  that  tradition  of  the  woodpecker  which 
describes  her  (she  is  a  wise-woman  in  the 
folk-tales)  as  knowing  where  the  spring- 
wurzel  grows,  that  mysterious  plant  of  Pan 
and  the  sun  with  which  one  may  open  the 
faces  of  cliffs  with  a  breath,  as  did  the  deer- 
mother  of  Oisin  of  the  Songs,  with  which 
too  one  may  find  the  secret  ways  of  Venus- 
berg  and  behold  incalculable  treasure. 

For  hark !  .  .  .  Pak-a-Pak,  and  the  long 
cry  of  love !  It  is  answered  from  the  listen- 
ing woods  !  Here  must  "  the  spring-wurzel  " 
grow  .  .  .  here,  for  sure,  are  the  green 
palaces  of  Venusberg,  here,  at  very  hand,  are 
the  incalculable  treasures  of  the  awakened 
Forest. 


182 


THE   WILD-APPLE 

The  foam  of  the  White  Tide  of  blossom 
has  been  flung  across  the  land.  It  is  already 
ebbing  from  the  blackthorn  hedges ;  the 
wild-cherry  herself  is  no  longer  so  immacu- 
lately snow-white.  It  drifts  on  the  wind  that 
has  wooed  the  wild-apple.  The  plum  is  like 
a  reef  swept  with  surf.  Has  not  the  laurus- 
tinus  long  been  as  cream-dappled  as,  later,  the 
elder  will  be  in  every  hedgerow  or  green  lane 
or  cottage-garden?  Not  that  all  the  tides  of 
blossom  are  like  fallen  snow :  is  not  the  apple- 
bloom  itself  flushed  with  the  hearts  of  roses? 
Think  of  the  flowering  almond,  that  cloud  of 
shell-heart  pink:  of  the  delicate  bloom  of  the 
peach  that  lives  on  the  south  wind:  of  the 
green-gold  of  the  sallow  catkins:  of  the  blaz- 
ing yellow  of  the  gorse:  of  the  homely  flow- 
ering-currant, which  even  by  mid-March  had 
hung  out  her  gay  tangle  of  pinky  blooms :  of 
the  purple-red  of  the  deadnettle  in  the  ditch, 
and  of  the  ruddy-hued  fallaways  of  the  pop- 
lar overhead.  I  wonder  if  in  most  places  the 
flowering-currant  is  no  more  than  an  ordinary 

183 


The  Wild-Apple 

shrub.  Here,  where  I  write,  there  are  sev- 
eral small  trees  of  it,  taller  than  the  general 
growth  of  the  lilac,  tall  as  the  laburnum, 
though  at  the  time  of  their  unloosening  the 
one  had  not  revealed  her  delicate  mauve  and 
white,  while  the  other  was  still  a  miser  of  the 
countless  gold  he  will  now  soon  be  spreading 
upon  the  wind.  The  pink  blooms,  carmine- 
ended  where  the  five  or  six  unfolded  blos- 
soms hang  like  fruit,  droop  in  a  roseal  shower, 
as  innumerous  as  the  golden  drops  of  the 
laburnum-rain  or  the  suspended  snowflakes 
of  the  white  lilac  themselves.  The  brown 
bees  have  long  discovered  this  flusht  Eden ; 
their  drowsily  sweet  murmurous  drone  is  as 
continuous  as  though  these  slow-swaying  pas- 
tures were  of  linden-bloom  and  the  hour  the 
heart  of  Summer. 

Everywhere  the  largesse  of  Spring  has  fol- 
lowed her  first  penury  in  the  scanty  snow  of 
the  blackthorn  on  bare  boughs.  What,  by 
the  way,  is  the  origin  of  the  phrase  "  Black- 
thorn-sorrow "  ?  I  heard  it  again  recently,  as 
though  to  say  that  Summer  was  safely  at 
hand  so  that  now  there  was  no  more  fear  of 
the  blackthorn-sorrow.  However,  as  later  I 
hope  to  deal  with  the  complex  folklore  of  the 
Thorn,  I  need  not  let  the  subject  delay  me 
now,  except  to  say  that  in  the  North-West 
184 


The  Wild-Apple 

Highlands  I  have  heard  the  blackthorn  called 
Brbn  Lochlannach,  the  Northman's  woe,  lit- 
erally Norse  or  Norland-sorrow  or  mourn- 
ing, ...  a  legendary  designation  to  which 
there  is,  I  believe,  a  North-German  analogue. 
The  idea  here  is  that  the  blackthorn  sprang 
from  the  blood  of  the  slain  Norse  invaders, 
the  "  pagans  from  Lochlin "  of  mediaeval 
Gaelic  story.  In  many  parts  of  the  kingdom 
it  is  looked  on  askance,  and  cut  sprays  of  it 
brought  into  a  house  are  considered  as  a 
menace  of  ill,  as  a  death-token  even;  and  it 
has  been  surmised  that  this  is  due  to  some 
confused  memory  of  a  druidical  or  other 
early  symbolism  of  the  commingling  of  win- 
ter and  summer,  in  other  words  of  life  and 
death,  in  the  blackthorn's  blossom  -  strewn 
leafless  branches.  It  may  be  so,  but  does  not 
seem  to  me  likely,  for  by  far  the  greater  part 
of  flower  and  tree  folklore  has  little  to  do 
with  such  subtle  conceptions.  Too  many  of 
these  are  as  vague  and  fantastical  as  that  le- 
gend which  says  that  one  must  not  taste  of  the 
root  of  the  peony  if  a  woodpecker  be  in  sight, 
or  else  the  penalty  may  be  blindness:  a  safe 
prognostication ! 

It  is  that  other  thorn  which  holds  us  now, 
that  lovely  torch  of  blossom  which  has  taken 
to  itself  the  name  of  the  lovers'-month.  Not 

185 


The  Wild-Apple 

that  the  hawthorn  has  unchallenged  use  of 
May  as  a  name.  In  Devon  the  white  lilac  is 
often  called  the  May,  and  elsewhere,  too,  the 
"  laylock  "  is  spoken  of  as  May-bloom.  The 
laurustinus,  again,  is  thus  named  in  some 
parts  of  Somerset,  and  I  have  heard  lilies-of- 
the-valley  called  May-blossoms.  In  Scotland 
I  have  often  heard  the  hawthorn-in-bloom 
called  Queen  of  the  May  and  even  Queen  of 
the  Meadow,  though  neither  name  properly 
belongs  to  it,  and  the  latter  is  the  inalienable 
title  of  the  meadowsweet.  But  of  all  wild- 
blossom  nothing  surpasses  in  mass  that  of  the 
hawthorn.  It,  truly,  is  the  foam  of  the 
groves  and  hollows.  From  the  south  to  the 
north  it  flows  in  a  foaming  tide.  "  Bride  of 
the  world  "  I  have  heard  it  called  in  a  Gaelic 
song,  and  long  ago  an  ancient  Celtic  bard 
spoke  of  it  lovingly  ..."  white  is  every 
green  thorn,  and  honeysweet." 

But  it  is  of  the  Apple  I  want  to  write  just 
now,  she  whose  coronal  of  blossom  is  surely 
loveliest  of  all  f ruitbearers :  Bride  of  the 
Wind  we  may  say — "  Persephone  herself  "  as 
a  modern  Italian  poet  calls  her. 

In  the  Highlands  to-day  the  Apple   (Ub- 

hal),   or    the    Wild -Apple    or    Crab -Apple 

(Ubhal-fiadhaich),  is  still  common  in  woods 

and  by  stream-sides.    The  bitter  juice  of  the 

186 


The  Wild-Apple 

fruit  is  still  used  for  sprains  and  bruises,  and 
to-day  as  of  old  the  Gaelic  poet  has  no  more 
frequent  comparison  of  his  sweetheart's 
charm  than  to  the  delicate-hued,  sweet-smell- 
ing apple — e.g., 

"  Iseabail  bg 

An  br-fhuilt  bhuidhe— 
Do  ghruaidh  mar  rds 
'S  do  phbg  mar  ubhal," 

where  the  poet  praises  his  Isabel  of  the  yel- 
low tresses  and  rose-flusht  cheek  and  kissing- 
mouth  sweet  as  an  apple.  Once  the  apple 
was  far  more  common  in  Scotland  than  it  is 
now.  An  old  authority,  Solinus,  says  that 
Moray  and  all  the  north-east  abounded  in  the 
third  century  with  fruit-bearing  apple-trees, 
and  Buchanan  even  speaks  of  Inverness- 
shire  as  being  unsurpassed  for  the  fruit. 
Visitors  to  lona,  to-day,  who  see  it  a  sandy 
treeless  isle,  may  hardly  credit  that  it  was 
once  famous  for  its  apple-orchards,  and  that, 
too,  as  late  as  the  ninth  century,  till  the  monks 
of  lona  were  slain  and  the  orchards  destroyed 
by  the  ravaging  vikings  out  of  Norway.  Beau- 
tiful Arran,  too,  was  once  lovelier  still,  so 
lovely  with  apple-blossom  and  ruddy  yellow 
fruit  that  it  was  called  Emhain  Abhlach,  the 
Avalon  of  the  Gael. 

187 


The  Wild-Apple 

To  come  in  a  waste  piece  of  tangled  woods, 
or  on  some  lapwing-haunted  pasture-edge,  or 
in  the  heathy  wilderness,  on  the  wild-apple  in 
bloom,  is  to  know  one  of  the  most  thrilling 
experiences  of  the  Spring.  As  a  rule  the 
wild-apple  stands  solitary.  Seen  thus,  it  has 
often  something  of  the  remote  element  of 
dreamland.  I  came  once,  in  the  heart  of  a 
beechwood,  on  a  single  tree  of  laburnum,  in 
full  glory  of  dense  unfallen  gold.  How  did 
it  come  to  be  there,  what  wind  had  first 
brought  it  on  the  tides  of  birth,  what  friendly 
nurture  had  led  the  seedling  to  the  sapling 
and  the  sapling  to  lovely  youth  ?  I  wondered ; 
but  most  I  wondered  at  the  sudden  beauty,  at 
the  unexpected  revelation  of  vistas  other  than 
those  of  the  woodland,  at  the  unloosening  of 
the  secret  gates  of  dreams  and  the  imagina- 
tion. Faerie  stood  open.  Angus  6g,  the  Cel- 
tic Apollo  Chrusokumos,  the  golden  Balder 
of  the  Gael,  stood  yonder  just  a  moment  ago, 
surely?  Yonder,  in  the  sunlit  greenness, 
Midir  of  the  Dew  it  was  who  passed  swiftly 
among  the  bat-wings  of  disguising  shadows? 
Was  that  Findabair  going  like  a  moonbeam, 
there  in  the  sea-caverns  of  the  green  leaf? 
Or  was  it  Fand,  whose  laughter  the  storm- 
thrush  caught,  long,  long  ago?  Surely  that 
was  an  echo  of  old  forgotten  song  in  the 
188 


The  Wild-Apple 

gloom  of  the  beeches  ?  Could  it  be  Fedelm  of 
the  Sldhe,  "  the  young  girl  of  the  mouth  of 
red  berries,  with  voice  sweeter  than  the 
strings  of  a  curved  harp,  and  skin  showing 
like  the  snow  of  a  single  night "?  And  there, 
vanishing  in  the  sunlit  cataract  of  gold  itself, 
like  a  rainbow  behind  falling  water,  was  not 
that  Niamh  of  the  Golden  Tresses?  .  .  . 
Niamh,  whose  beauty  was  so  great  that  the 
poets  of  the  Other-world  and  those  who  died 
of  love  for  her  called  her  Love  Entangled, 
she  whose  beauty  filled  three  hundred  years 
in  the  single  hour  that  Fionn  thought  he  was 
with  her,  in  the  days  when  the  ancient  world 
had  suddenly  grown  old,  and  the  little  bell  of 
Patrick  the  Christ-Bringer  had  tinkled  sor- 
row and  desolation  and  passing  away  across 
the  Irish  hills.  Up  among  the  devious  green 
pathways  of  the  travelling  wood  what  lost 
king's  voice  was  that?  .  .  . 


"Say,  down  those  halls  of  Quiet 

Doth  he  cry  upon  his  Queen? 
Or  doth  he  sleep,  contented 

To  dream  of  what  has  been?" 


.  .  .  what  poet  of  long  ago,  living  in  a  flame 
of  passion  still,  a  wandering  breath  for  ever, 
went  by  on  that  drowsy  wind? — 
189 


The  Wild-Apple 

"Across  the  world  my  sorrow  flies, 
A-hunger  for  the  grey  and  wistful 
Beauty  of  Feithfailge's  eyes." 

Something  of  that  emotion  as  of  ancestral 
memories,  as  of  an  awakened  past,  of  an  un- 
loosening of  the  imagination,  may  well  come 
to  any  imaginative  nature  encountering  sud- 
denly a  wild-apple  in  blossom  in  some  solitary 
place.  To  people  of  a  Celtic  race  or  having 
a  dominant  Celtic  strain,  in  particular,  per- 
haps; for  to  the  Gael,  the  Cymru  and  the 
Breton  the  Apple-tree  is  associated  with  his 
most  sacred  traditional  beliefs.  Of  old  it  was 
sacrosanct.  It  was  the  Celtic  Tree  of  Life, 
what  Yggdrasil  was  to  the  ancient  dreamers 
of  Scandinavia.  He  cannot  think  of  it,  but  of 
the  kingdom  of  eternal  youth :  of  Emhain 
Abhlach,  of  Y  Breasil,  of  Avalon,  of  drowned 
Avillion.  It  waves  over  the  lost  Edens.  In 
Tir-na-n'Og  its  boughs,  heavy  with  blossom, 
hang  above  the  foam  of  the  last  pale  waters 
of  doom.  The  tired  islander,  who  has  put 
away  hunger  and  weariness  and  dreams  and 
the  old  secret  desire  of  the  sword,  lays  him- 
self down  below  its  branches  in  Flatheanas, 
and  hears  the  wild  harpers  of  Rinn  in  a 
drowsy  hum  like  the  hum  of  wild  bees.  Grey- 
haired  men  and  women  on  the  shores  of  Con- 
nemara  look  out  across  the  dim  wave  and  see 
190 


The  Wild- Apple 

the  waving  of  its  boughs.  The  Breton  peas- 
ant, standing  at  twilight  on  the  rock-strewn 
beaches  of  Tregastel,  will  cross  himself  as  he 
smells  the  fragrance  of  apple-blossom  coming 
from  sunken  isles  across  the  long  rolling 
billows,  and  remember,  perhaps,  how  of  old 
in  moonlit  nights  he  has  seen  his  keel  drive 
through  the  yielding  topmost  branches  of  the 
woods  of  Avalon.  Many  poets  have  wan- 
dered in  the  secret  valleys  of  Avillion,  and 
have  passed  under  boughs  heavy  with  foam 
of  dreams,  and  have  forgotten  all  things  and 
been  uplifted  in  joy.  In  the  glens  of  the  Land 
of  Heart's  Desire  the  tired  singers  of  the 
world  have  become  silent  under  the  windless 
branches,  snow-white  in  the  moonshine,  hav- 
ing found  the  Heart  of  Song. 

The  cross  and  death-coffer  of  apple-wood, 
the  crown  of  wild-apple,  the  apple-staff,  the 
poet's  tablets  of  apple-wood,  all  the  apple- 
myths  and  apple-legends,  how  could  one  tell 
of  them  in  a  few  words.  They  are  in  old 
songs  and  old  tales  of  all  lands.  Our  Gaelic 
literature  alone  is  fragrant  with  apple-bloom, 
is  lovely  with  the  flickering  shadow  of  the 
apple-leaf,  mysterious  with  symbol  of  fruit 
and  the  apple- wood,  that  holds  life  and  death 
in  one  embrace.  Many  readers  will  at  once 
recall  that  lovely  old  tale  of  Baile  the  Sweet- 
191 


The  Wild-Apple 

spoken  and  Ailinn  Honeymouth,  whose  love 
was  so  great  that  when  in  their  beautiful 
youth  they  died  and  were  buried,  one  in  a 
grave  to  the  north  and  one  in  a  grave  to  the 
south,  grave-wood  grew  into  grave-wood,  and 
green  branches  from  the  north  and  the  south 
became  one  overhanging  branch,  under  which 
the  winds  murmured  of  passion  that  winter- 
death  could  not  kill  nor  the  hot  noons  of  sum- 
mer lull  into  forget  fulness.  There  is  an  older 
and  less-known  sgeul  of  how  Ana,  that  most 
ancient  goddess,  the  Mother,  after  she  had 
fashioned  all  the  gods,  and  had  made  man 
out  of  rock  and  sand  and  water  and  the 
breathing  of  her  breath,  made  woman  out  of 
the  body  of  a  wave  of  the  sea  and  out  of  foam 
of  apple-blossom  and  out  of  the  wandering 
wind.  And  there  are  many  tales  that,  in  this 
way  or  a  like  way,  have  in  them  the  mysteri- 
ous wind  of  the  wild-apple,  many  poems  on 
whose  shadowy  waters  float  the  rose-flusht 
snow  of  the  scattered  blossoms  of  dreams 
and  desires.  Was  not  the  apple-blossom  first 
stained  through  the  inappeasable  longing  of 
a  poet-king,  who,  yet  living,  had  reached  Y 
Breasil?  Ulad  saw  there  a  garth  of  white 
blossom,  and  of  this  he  gathered,  and  warmed 
all  night  against  his  breast,  and  at  dawn 
breathed  into  them.  When  the  sunbreak  slid 
192 


The  Wild-Apple 

a  rising  line  along  the  dawn  he  saw  that  what 
had  been  white  blooms,  made  warm  by  his 
breath  and  flusht  by  the  beating  of  his  heart, 
was  a  woman.  And  how  at  the  end  Fand  be- 
came once  more  a  drift  of  white  blossom 
upon  the  deerskin.  For,  when  the  longing 
and  the  sorrow  of  all  sorrows  in  the  heart  of 
Ulad  wrapt  his  heart  in  flame,  suddenly  a 
wind-eddy  scattered  the  blossoms  upon  the 
deerskin,  so  that  they  wavered  hither  and 
thither,  but  some  were  stained  by  the  wander- 
ing fires  of  a  rainbow  that  drifted  out  of  the 
rose-red  thickets  of  the  dawn. 

How  far  back  do  these  apple-legends  go? 
I  know  not.  But  when  Aphrodite  was  born 
of  the  Idalian  foam  she  held  an  apple  in  her 
hand,  as  Asia  or  Eve  looked  long  upon  the 
fruit  of  life  and  death  in  Eden.  In  Hades 
itself  was  it  not  the  lure  and  the  bitterness  of 
Tantalus?  All  old  poems  and  tales,  as  I  have 
said,  have  it,  whether  as  legend,  or  dream,  or 
metaphor,  or  as  a  simile  even,  as  in  the 
seventh-century  MS.  of  the  Cam  Adamnain, 
where  Adamnan's  old  mother  cries  mo  mac- 
cansa  suut  amail  bis  ubull  jo'  tuind  ..."  my 
dear  son  yonder  is  like  an  apple  on  a  wave  " : 
[i.e.]  little  is  his  hold  on  the  earth.  And  those 
of  us  who  have  read,  and  remember,  the  Prose 
Edda,  will  recall  how  Iduna  "  keeps  in  a  box, 

193 


The  Wild-Apple 

Apples,  which  the  gods,  when  they  feel  old 
age  approaching,  have  only  to  taste  to  become 
young  again." 

Is  that  too  a  dream,  or  is  there  no  Rag- 
narok  for  the  gods  to  fear  ?  This  at  least  we 
know,  that  as  the  winter-tide,  the  death-tide, 
eternally  recurs,  so  is  the  foam-white  Dream 
continually  rewoven,  so  everlastingly  does 
Spring  come  again  in  the  green  garment  that 
is  the  symbol  of  immortality  and  wearing  the 
white  coronals  of  blossom  which  stand  for 
the  soul's  inalienable  hope,  for  the  spirit's  in- 
calculable joy.  For  Avalon  is  not  a  dream. 
It  is  with  us  still.  It  is  here  indeed,  though 
set  within  no  frontiers,  and  unlimned  in  any 
chart.  And  even  the  apples  of  Iduna  grow 
within  reach :  the  least  of  us  may  eat  of  the 
fruit  .  .  .  till  the  coming  of  Ragnarok. 


194 


RUNNING  WATERS 

Is  it  because  the  wild-wood  passion  of  Pan 
still  lingers  in  our  hearts,  because  still  in  our 
minds  the  voice  of  Syrinx  floats  in  melan- 
choly music,  the  music  of  regret  and  longing, 
that  for  most  of  us  there  is  so  potent  a  spell 
in  running  waters?  We  associate  them  with 
loneliness  and  beauty.  Beauty  and  solitude 
.  .  .  these  are  still  the  shepherd-kings  of  the 
imagination,  to  compel  our  wandering  memo- 
ries, our  thoughts,  our  dreams.  There  is  a 
story  of  one  snatched  from  the  closing  hand 
of  death,  who,  when  asked  if  he  had  been 
oppressed  by  dark  confusion  and  terror,  an- 
swered that  he  had  known  no  terror  and  no 
confusion  but  only  an  all-embracing  and  in- 
tensifying silence,  till  at  the  last,  deep  within 
it  as  in  a  profound  chasm,  he  had  caught 
the  low,  continuous  sound  of  running  waters. 
That  I  can  well  believe.  At  the  extremes  of 
life  thought  naturally  returns  to  the  things 
that  first  communicated  to  the  shaken  mind 
of  childhood  the  sense  of  mystery,  the  sum- 

195 


Running  Waters 

mons  and  the  elation  of  that  which  re- 
veals in  beauty  and  utters  the  vibration  of 
wonder.  The  first  coming  of  snow,  the  noise 
of  wind  in  trees,  the  gathering  murmur  of 
the  tide  heard  in  the  night's  darkness  and 
silence,  music  or  songs  borne  across  water, 
the  first  falling  meteors  with  their  terrify- 
ing suggestion  that  all  these  familiar  stellar 
fires  may  likewise  at  any  time  be  blown 
abroad  by  some  obscure  and  awful  wind, 
the  furtive  whisperings  and  inexplicable  con- 
fused speech  of  running  waters,  of  such 
are  these  primitive  and  unforgettable  ex- 
periences. 

The  burn,  the  brook,  the  rivulet,  what 
memories  of  them  are  possessed  by  those 
whose  childhood  has  not  been  wholly  spent  in 
towns,  or  at  those  thronged  seaside  resorts 
where  the  bounteous  green  life  of  Nature  is 
even  more  absent  than  in  many  cities,  at  least 
in  those  which  have  their  wooded  parks,  in 
which  there  may  be  flowing  or  still  waters, 
where  the  cushat  may  be  heard  among  the 
cedars  or  beeches,  and  where,  above  the  tall 
elms,  the  noisy  coming  and  going  of  rooks 
seems  to  the  exile  the  very  voice  of  the  coun- 
try-side. The  linn  of  brown  foaming  water, 
the  amber  surge  of  the  hill-stream,  the  stealthy 
if  swift  rush  of  the  brown  flood  beloved  of 
196 


Running  Waters 

the  salmon,  or  the  curve  and  sweep  of  the 
grass-green  river  flowing  between  meadows 
and  under  alders  and  past  rocky  fastness  and 
linking  green  valleys  as  a  winding  snake  barred 
with  emerald,  what  memories  these  suggest  to 
every  lad  or  lass,  to  every  man  or  woman  who 
has  ever  thrown  a  cast  or  trailed  a  line,  or,  for 
that  matter,  who  has  lain  on  their  leaning 
banks,  book  in  hand,  or  lost  in  dreams,  or 
wandered  the  dewy  ways  at  dusk.  Does  not 
the  very  mention  of  torrent  and  cataract  and 
waterfall  evoke  happy  memories?  One  can 
hear  the  tumultuous  surge  between  heather- 
held  banks,  and  see  the  rock-rooted  bracken 
shake  with  the  ceaseless  spray:  can  see  the 
wild  leap  and  foaming  collapse,  so  habitual, 
so  orderly  in  disorder,  that  the  ring-ousel 
flies  heedlessly  from  her  fragile  eggs  which  a 
handful  of  this  whirling  water  would  crush 
and  sweep  away:  can  recall,  as  in  dreams  the 
mind  rebuilds  the  phantoms  of  natural  im- 
agery, the  long,  white,  wavering  smoke  down 
the  sheer  slope  of  some  mountain-bastion,  or 
the  filmy  yet  motionless  veils  of  delicate  gauze 
hung  high  on  the  breasts  of  silent  and  remote 
hills. 

What  differences  there  are  in  these  running 
waters.    We  hear  much  of  "  blue  "  rivers,  of 
the  silver  flood  of  azure,  and  so  forth.     But 
197 


Running  Waters 

few  rivers  or  brooks  or  burns  are  blue.  Their 
azure  colour  is  a  mirage  wrought  by  distance 
and  the  angle  of  vision,  affected  by  the  play 
of  wind,  by  the  quality  of  light,  by  the  blue- 
ness  of  the  sky.  Every  German  poet  has 
sung  of  the  blue  Danube,  the  blue  Rhine. 
These  rivers  have  no  quality  of  blueness,  save 
by  reflection  from  above,  at  a  distance,  and  at 
a  certain  angle  of  vision.  Waters  flowing 
from  the  Lake  of  Geneva  and  from  the  Lake 
of  Lucerne  are  blue  even  on  grey  days  and  if 
looked  at  on  the  shadow-side  of  a  bridge.  We 
have  many  grey -blue  and  blue -white  and 
azure-shadowed  running  waters,  but  we  have 
more  that  are  grass-green  and  far  more  that 
are  dappled  hazel  and  nut-brown  and  golden- 
brown  and  amber-shot  black-brown.  It  is 
not  easy  to  say  which  of  these  running  waters 
one  loves  best :  nor  need  one,  nor  should  one 
try.  It  would  be  like  thinking  of  a  garden- 
close  filled  with  wallflower  and  mignonette, 
carnations  and  sweet  peas,  dark  violets  and 
yellow  pansies  and  blue  love-in-a-mist,  white 
tulips  and  lilies-of-the-valley  and  white  roses, 
damask  rose  and  the  flusht  morning-glory  and 
the  pink  moss-rose  and  brier  and  eglantine, 
and  saying  which  is  best  of  these,  which  love- 
liest, which  the  most  dear  to  the  mind  as  well 
as  to  the  eyes.  But,  still,  we  have  doubtless 
198 


Running  Waters 

each  some  happy  choice,  some  hidden  predi- 
lection. That  will  depend  on  memories  and 
associations.  I  read  somewhere  recently  that 
a  certain  traveller  could  not  anywhere  find, 
could  nowhere  recall,  any  stream  or  river  for 
him  so  poetical,  so  lovely  in  quiet  beauty  as 
the  Yorkshire  Ouse.  My  knowledge  of  that 
river  is  restricted  to  a  brief  intimacy  at  and 
near  York,  and  my  recollection  of  it  is  of  a 
broad  turbid  stream  between  muddy  banks. 
But  that  does  not  interfere  with  the  giving 
full  credit  to  that  traveller's  loyal  affection. 
He  would  remember  the  Ouse  among  the 
sands  of  Egypt  or  by  the  yellow  flow  of  the 
Hooghly  or  perhaps  by  the  surge  of  some 
great  river  as  the  Mississippi,  and  it  would 
flow  through  his  mind  in  a  serene  pastoral 
beauty,  bluer  than  any  river  that  ever  flowed 
in  our  grey  North,  and  in  a  changeless  light 
of  May  or  June,  with  calling  cuckoo  and 
thridding  swallow  unmindful  of  seasons  that 
come  and  go,  and  with  green  flag  and  tufted 
reed  and  trailing  willow-branch  as  unfading 
as  the  memories  to  which  they  are  for  ever- 
more wed.  It  would  not  be  the  Ouse  that 
you  or  I  look  at  from  the  muddy  banks  on  a 
dull  November  day,  or  catch  a  glimpse  of  as 
the  North  Express  whirls  by.  It  would  be 
the  Ouse  of  boyhood  and  youth  and  the  heart 
199 


Running  Waters 

filled  with  a  sweet  trouble,  perplext  by  a 
strange  ache.  It  would  be  the  Ouse  at  its 
loveliest,  on  a  rare  day,  in  an  hour  of  the 
hours,  flowing  in  midsummer-air  fragrant 
with  meadow-hay  and  wild-roses.  It  would 
be  an  Ouse  more  beautiful  still:  it  would 
be  subtly  present  in  "  the  quiet  waters  "  of 
the  Psalmist,  wherever  the  painter  limned 
that  delicate  unrest,  wherever  the  poet  sang 
of  the  Stream's  Secret.  It  would  be,  for  him, 
the  archetype  of  the  flowing  stream:  the 
river. 

And  so,  each  will  have  his  preference,  if  it 
be  only  one  of  temperament  rather  than  of 
sentiment.  The  deep,  broad,  swirling  river 
has  its  incalculable  fascination.  Its  mysteri- 
ous volume,  so  great  a  flood  from  perhaps  so 
insignificant  a  source,  from  mayhap  some 
shallow  pool  among  stagnant  marsh-lands 
with  nothing  of  stir  or  motion  but  the 
hovering  dragon-fly,  the  wheeling  and  wailing 
lapwing,  and  the  slow,  voiceless  passage  of  way- 
faring cloud:  its  devious  way,  like  an  inter- 
minable procession  or  the  continuous  winding 
column  of  an  army  seen  from  a  great  height : 
its  arrivals  and  departures  at  quiet  towns  and 
noisy  and  defiling  cities :  its  destiny,  its  ulti- 
mate blending  with  the  devouring  tide  and 
the  overrunning  wave  ...  all  this  has  be- 
200 


Running  Waters 

come  the  commonplace  of  the  poet  and  the 
romancist.  Thames  filled  with  every  craft 
possible  to  be  seen  betwixt  the  Nore  and 
Oxford ;  the  Forth,  winding  in  still  loops  un- 
der the  walls  of  Stirling  and  grey  Cambusken- 
neth;  the  Clyde,  running  past  the  hills  of 
Dumbarton  and  Argyll,  already  salt  with  the 
sea-flood  pouring  in  by  the  ocean-gates  of 
Arran  and  Ailsa ;  the  deep  flood  of  Tay  or 
Shannon ;  these,  and  others,  will  always  have 
a  host  to  praise  and  magnify.  But  many  of 
us  will  dream  rather  of  chalk-streams  in  Dev- 
on, of  the  rippling  amber-yellow  flood  of 
Derwent  in  the  Peakland  valleys,  of  Tweed 
and  Teviot,  of  slow  streams  among  woods  and 
bright  rivers  going  like  cold  flame  through 
wide  straths  and  lowlands :  of  small  narrow 
waters  whose  very  names  are  wedded  to 
beauty  and  to  "  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things," 
Otterbourne,  the  Water  of  Urr,  the  Water  of 
Quair,  Allan  Water.  Above  all  will  some  of 
us  think  of  those  peat-stained  bracken-dyed 
burns,  that  leap  and  dance  and  sing  down  the 
steep  ways  of  rock  and  heather  in  the  Scot- 
land of  our  love. 

For  my  own  part  I  find  myself  in  so  great 
agreement  with  a  friend,  who  expresses  bet- 
ter than  I  can  do  the  love  and  haunting  spell 
of  the  brown  hill-water  (which  is  neither  a 
201 


Running  Waters 

river  nor  exactly  a  stream  nor  yet  a  rivulet, 
but  with  something  of  each  and  more  of  what 
in  the  lowlands  is  a  brook  and  in  the  high- 
lands a  burn,  yet  than  the  one  is  swifter  and 
than  the  other  is  less  debonair  and  impetuous) 
that  I  have  been  constrained  to  ask  leave  to 
let  it  appear  here  as  a  natural  close  of  run- 
ning waters  at  the  end  of  this  brief  paper  on 
a  theme  in  whose  very  title  lie  old  music 
and  dream  and  subtly  incalculable  spell. 


THE  HILL-WATER 

There  is  a  little  brook, 
I  love  it  well : 
It  hath  so  sweet  a  sound 
That  even  in  dreams  my  ears  could  tell 
Its  music  anywhere. 
Often  I  wander  there. 
And  leave  my  book 
Unread  upon  the  ground, 
Eager  to  quell 
In  the  hush'd  air 

That  dwells  above  its  flowing  forehead  fair 
All  that  about  my  heart  hath  wound 
A  trouble  of  care: 
Or,  it  may  be,  idly  to  spell 
Its  runic  music  rare, 
And  with  its  singing  soul  to  share 
Its  ancient  lore  profound: 
For  sweet  it  is  to  be  the  echoing  shell 
That  lists  and  inly  keeps  that  murmurous  miracle. 
202 


Running  Waters 

About  it  all  day  long 

In  this  June -tide 

There  is  a  myriad  song. 

From  every  side 

There  comes  a  breath,  a  hum,  a  voice: 

The  hill- wind  fans  it  with  a  pleasant  noise 

As  of  sweet  rustling  things 

That  move  on  unseen  wings, 

And  from  the  pinewood  near 

A  floating  whisper  oftentimes  I  hear, 

As  when,  o'er  pastoral  meadows  wide, 

Stealeth  the  drowsy  music  of  a  weir. 

The  green  reeds  bend  above  it; 

The  soft  green  grasses  stoop  and  trail  therein; 

The  minnows  dart  and  spin; 

The  purple-gleaming  swallows  love  it : 

And,  hush,  its  innermost  depths  within, 

The  vague  prophetic  murmur  of  the  linn! 

But  not  in  summertide  alone 

I  love  to  look 

Upon  this  rippling  water  in  my  glen: 

Most  sweet,  most  dear  my  brook. 

And  most  my  own, 

When  the  grey  mists  shroud  every  ben, 

And  in  its  quiet  place 

The  stream  doth  bare  her  face 

And  lets  me  pore  deep  down  into  her  eyes, 

Her  eyes  of  shadowy  grey 

Wherein  from  day  to  day 

My  soul  is  spellbound  with  a  new  surmise, 

Or  doth  some  subtler  meaning  trace 

Reflected  from  unseen  invisible  skies. 

Dear  mountain-solitary,  dear  lonely  brook, 
Of  hillside  rains  and  dews  the  fragrant  daughter, 
203 


Running  Waters 

Sweet,  sweet  thy  music  when  I  bend  above  thee, 

When  in  thy  fugitive  face  I  look: 

Yet  not  the  less  I  love  thee, 

When,  far  away,  and  absent  from  thee  long, 

I  yearn,  my  dark  hill-water, 

I  yearn,  I  strain  to  hear  thy  song, 

Brown,  wandering  water, 

Dear,  murmuring  water! 


204 


THE   SUMMER   HERALDS 

If  the  cuckoo,  the  swallow,  and  the  night- 
jar be  pre-eminently  the  birds  of  Summer 
(though,  truly,  the  swift,  the  flycatcher,  and 
the  corncrake  have  as  good  a  title)  the  rear- 
guard of  Spring  may  be  said  to  be  the  house- 
martin,  the  cushat,  and  the  turtle.  Even  the 
delaying  wheatear,  or  the  still  later  butcher- 
bird may  have  come,  and  yet  Sweep-Sweep 
may  not  have  been  heard  about  the  eaves  of 
old  houses  or  under  and  over  the  ruined  clay 
of  last  year's  nests;  the  cushat's  voice  may 
not  have  become  habitual  in  the  greening 
woods ;  and  the  tireless  wings  of  the  turtle 
may  not  have  been  seen  clipping  the  invisible 
pathways  between  us  and  the  horizons  of  the 
south.  But,  when  these  come,  we  know  that 
Spring  has  traversed  the  whole  country,  and 
is  now  standing  ankle-deep  in  thrift  and 
moondaisies  in  the  last  rocky  places  fronting 
the  north  sea.  No  one  doubts  that  summer 
is  round  the  corner  when  the  flycatcher  hawks 
the  happy  hunting-grounds  of  the  apple- 
blossom,  when  the  swift  wheels  over  the  spire 
205 


The  Summer  Heralds 

of  the  village  church,  and  when  the  wild-dove 
is  come  again.  The  first  call  of  the  cuckoo 
unloosened  the  secret  gates.  We  are  across 
the  frontier  in  that  first  gloaming  when  we 
hear 

The  clamour  musical  of  culver  wings 
Beating  the  soft  air  of  the  dewy  dusk. 

To  these  familiar  and  loved  harbingers  from 
the  south  should  be  added  yet  another  wel- 
come friend  who  comes  to  us  in  the  rear-guard 
of  the  Spring,  though,  rather,  we  should  say 
he  becomes  visible  now,  for  the  Bat  has  never 
crossed  the  seas.  The  house-martin  has  not 
had  time  to  forget  the  sands  of  Africa  before 
her  wing  has  dusked  the  white  pansies  on  the 
sunside  of  old  redbrick  English  manors:  but 
the  bat  has  only  to  stretch  his  far  stronger 
.yet  incalculably  less  enduring  pinions  and 
then  loop  through  the  dusk  from  ivied  cave 
or  tree-hollow  or  the  sombre  silences  of  old 
barns,  ruined  towers,  or  ancient  belfries  shel- 
tered from  rain  and  wind. 

The  Awakening  of  the  Bat  .  .  .  yes,  that 
too  is  a  sign  that  Spring  has  gone  by,  sing- 
ing on  her  northward  way  and  weaving 
coronals  of  primrose  and  cowslip,  or  from  her 
unfolded  lap  throwing  clouds  of  blossom  on 
this  hawthorn  or  on  this  apple-orchard,  or 
206 


The  Summer  Heralds 

where  the  wind-a-quiver  pear  leans  over  the 
pasture  from  the  garden-edge,  or  where  in 
green  hollows  the  wild-cherry  holds  the  nest 
of  a  speckled  thrush.  She  will  be  gone  soon. 
Before  the  cuckoo's  sweet  bells  have  jangled 
she  will  be  treading  the  snows  of  yester-year. 
But  no,  she  never  leaves  the  circling  road, 
Persephone,  Earth's  loveliest  daughter.  On- 
ward forever  she  goes,  young,  immortal, 
singing  the  greening  song  of  her  ancient 
deathless  magic  far  down  below  the  horizons, 
beyond  the  lifting  line  of  the  ever  upwelling 
world.  And  already  Summer  is  awake.  She 
hears  the  nightjar  churring  from  the  juniper 
to  his  mate  on  the  hawthorn-bough,  and  in 
the  dew  among  the  green  corn  or  from  the 
seeding  pastures  the  crek-crake!  crek-crake!  of 
the  ambiguous  landrail.  This  morning,  when 
she  woke,  the  cushats  were  calling  from  the 
forest-avenues,  the  bumblebee  droned  in  the 
pale  horns  of  the  honeysuckle,  and  from  a 
thicket  newly  covered  with  pink  and  white 
blossoms  of  the  wild-rose  a  proud  mavis  saw 
her  younglings  at  last  take  flight  on  confident 
wing. 

A  good  symbol,  that  of  the  Awakening  of 

the  Bat.    Darkness  come  out  of  the  realm  of 

sleep  and  dreams :  the  realm  itself  filled  with 

the  west  wind  and  the  dancing  sunlight,  sleep 

207 


The  Summer  Heralds 

put  away  like  a  nomad's  winter-tent  and 
dreams  become  realities.  Often  I  have  won- 
dered how  it  is  that  so  little  is  commonly 
known  of  the  bat-lore  of  our  own  and  other 
races.  Doubtless  there  is  some  book  which 
deals  with  this  lore.  There  may  be  some 
familiar  one  for  aught  I  know,  but  I  have 
never  met  with  or  heard  of  it. 

Recently  I  tried  in  vain  to  get  some  such 
book  dealing  with  the  folklore  and  mythology 
of  the  bat.  And  yet  in  the  traditional  lore  of 
all  countries  there  are  many  allusions  to  this 
"  blind  bird  of  the  dusk."  The  Greeks,  the 
Romans,  the  Celts  of  Europe,  the  westering 
Gaels,  had  many  legends  and  superstitions 
connected  with  it.  To-day  the  Finn,  the 
Magyar,  the  Basque  and  the  island  Gael  keep 
some  of  the  folklore  that  has  ebbed  away 
from  other  nations,  or  become  confused  or 
remembered  only  by  old  folk  in  old  out-of- 
the-way  places.  Somewhere  I  have  notes  of 
several  bat-legends  and  fragments  of  bat-lore 
collected  once  for  a  friend,  who  after  all  went 
"  to  hunt  the  bat "  before  he  could  use  them. 
That  was  the  phrase  which  started  the  quest. 
He  had  read  it,  or  heard  it,  I  think,  and  wrote 
to  me  asking  if  I  had  ever  heard  the  phrase 
"  to  hunt  the  bat  "  as  synonymous  with  death. 
I  have  heard  it  once  or  twice  in  the  last  few 
208 


The  Summer  Heralds 

years,  and  once  in  a  story  where  the  teller, 
speaking  of  an  outlaw  who  was  a  great  deer- 
hunter  in  the  wilds  of  Inverness,  was  found 
dead  "  with  the  fork  of  an  ash-root  through 
his  breast,  pinned  like  a  red  fox  he  was,  and 
he  by  that  time  hunting  the  bat  in  the  black 
silence."  It  would  be  inapposite,  here,  to 
linger  on  this  theme,  but  I  am  tempted  to 
record  one  or  two  of  these  bat-lore  fragments 
which  I  recall :  and  perhaps,  from  the  scarcity 
of  such  traditional  flotsam  and  jetsam,  some 
readers  and  bat-lovers  may  be  interested. 

The  bat,  commonly  called  in  Gaelic  an 
ialtag,  or  dialtag,  though  even  in  the  one 
shire  of  Argyll  at  least  six  other  common 
names  might  as  likely  be  heard,  is  occasionally 
poetically  called  the  Bddharan-dhu,  the  dark 
wandering  one.  I  remember  being  told  that 
the  reason  of  the  name  was  as  follows.  In 
the  early  days  of  the  world  the  bat  was  blue 
as  the  kingfisher  and  with  a  breast  white  as 
that  of  the  swallow,  and  its  eyes  were  so  large 
and  luminous  that  because  of  this  and  its 
whirling  flight  its  ancient  name  was  a  name 
signifying  "  flash-fire  " — though  now  become, 
with  the  Gaelic  poet  who  told  me  this,  dealan- 
dhu  badhalaiche  choille,  "  the  little  black  wan- 
dering flame  of  the  woods."  But  on  the  day 
of  the  Crucifixion  the  bat  mocked  at  the 
209 


The  Summer  Heralds 

agony  of  the  Saviour,  and  while  the  red- 
breast was  trying  to  pull  out  a  thorn,  now 
from  Christ's  hand,  now  from  His  foot,  the 
bat  whirled  to  and  fro  crying,  "  See  how  love- 
ly I  am !  See  how  swift  I  am !  "  Christ 
turned  His  eyes  and  looked  at  it,  and  the 
blue  and  the  white  went  out  of  the  bat  like 
the  ebbing  wave  out  of  a  pool,  and  it  became 
blind  and  black  and  whirled  away  till  it  met 
the  rising  of  night  and  was  drowned  in  that 
darkness  for  evermore.  And  that  is  why  the 
bat  is  seen  in  the  dusk  and  at  night,  and 
wheels  to  and  fro  in  such  aimless  wandering 
flight,  with  his  thin  almost  inaudible  voice 
crying,  "  See  how  blind  I  am !  See  how  ugly 
I  am ! " 

From  the  same  source  I  had  dealan-dhu 
bais,  the  little  black  flame  (or  flash)  of  death, 
and  a  still  stranger  note  to  the  effect  that  bats 
are  the  offspring  of  lightning  and  smitten 
trees :  the  connection  being  more  obvious  to 
Gaelic  ears,  because  dealan-bas  is  one  of  the 
names  of  lightning. 

The  other  name  I  heard  as  a  child,  and  it 
long  puzzled  me.  Bcuban-an-Athar-Uaibhrcach: 
literally,  the  malformed  one  of  the  Haughty 
Father.  Now  why  should  the  bat  be  called 
bettban,  a  thing  spoiled,  wilfully  malformed? 
"  An  t'  Athair  Uaibhreach "  (of  which  an 

210 


The  Summer  Heralds 

athar  is  the  genitive)  is  one  of  the  evasive 
names  used  by  the  Gael  for  Satan  .  .  .  for 
that  proud  and  glorious  angel,  the  Father  of 
Evil,  who  fell  from  his  high  estate  through 
inconquerable  pride.  Why,  then,  was  the  bat 
the  malformed  creature  of  Satan?  Il>  was 
years  afterwards  before  I  had  the  story  told 
rae,  for  my  old  nurse  (from  whom  I  heard 
the  phrase)  did  not  think  the  tale  fitting  for 
a  child's  ears.  When  Judas  hanged  himself 
on  a  tree,  so  the  tale  ran,  and  his  soul  went 
out  lamenting  on  the  wind,  the  Haughty 
Father  flung  that  wretched  spirit  contemptu- 
ously back  into  the  world.  But  first  he 
twisted  it  and  altered  it  four  hundred  and 
forty-four  times,  till  it  was  neither  human  nor 
bird  nor  beast,  but  was  likest  a  foul  rat  with 
leathern  wings.  "  Stay  there  till  the  last 
day,"  he  said,  "  in  blindness  and  darkness, 
and  be  accursed  for  ever  "...  and  that  is 
why  the  bat  (the  triollachan  dhorchadas,  "  the 
little  waverer  of  the  dark,"  or  triollachan 
fheasgair,  or  little  waverer  of  the  dusk,  as  a 
more  merciful  legend  has  it)  flies  as  he  does, 
maimed,  blind,  accursed  and  feared,  and 
shrieking  in  his  phantom  voice  Gu  la'  bais! 
Gu  la'  bais!  ("  till  the  day  of  death  "...  i.e., 
the- Last  Day). 

In  some  parts  of  Argyll  the  bat  is  said  to 
211 


The  Summer  Heralds 

live  for  three  generations  of  an  eagle,  six 
generations  of  a  stag,  and  nine  generations 
of  a  man.  With  less  poetic  exactitude  I  have 
been  told  that  it  lives  thirteen  years  in  flight 
and  thirty-three  years  in  all !  ...  though 
equally  authentic  information  avers  that  the 
average  life  of  the  bat  is  twenty-one  years. 
A  forester  told  me  once  that  he  did  not  think 
any  bat  lived  longer  than  nine  years,  but  he 
thought  fifteen  as  likely  as  nine.  On  the 
other  hand,  he  himself  spoke,  and  as  though 
for  all  he  knew  it  might  well  be  so,  of  an 
old  tradition  that  a  bat  lives  to  a  hundred 
years.  This,  I  may  add,  I  have  heard  again 
and  again.  The  other  day  a  fisherman  from 
the  island  of  Lismore  gave  the  unexpected 
answer :  "  How  old  will  the  ialtag  be  ?  Well, 
now,  just  exactly  what  the  age  of  Judas  was 
the  hour  he  kissed  Christ  and  betrayed  Him, 
and  not  a  day  more  and  not  a  day  less." 
Nothing  explicit  as  to  that,  however,  could 
be  obtained.  A  gardener  told  me  once  a 
rhyme  about  how  to  get  at  the  age  of  man, 
but  I  have  forgotten  it  except  that  it  was  to 
the  effect  that  a  losgunn  (a  toad)  was  twice 
the  age  of  an  easgunn  (an  eel),  and  that  a 
dialtag  (bat)  was  twice  the  age  of  a  losgunn, 
and  that  am  fiadh  (the  stag)  was  twice  the 
age  of  a  dialtag,  "  and  put  ten  to  that  and 
212 


The  Summer  Heralds 

you'll  have  the  allotted  age  of  man  "  [i.e.,  an 
eel  is  supposed  to  live  about  seven  years  to 
seven  and  a  half  years:  a  frog  or  toad  to 
about  fifteen:  a  bat  to  about  thirty:  a  deer 
to  about  sixty.  I  should  add,  however,  that 
my  informant  was  not  sure  if  in  the  third  in- 
stance it  wasn't  a  iolair  (eagle)  instead  of  a 
deer]. 

One  of  the  strangest  English  names  for  the 
bat  (among  over  a  score  only  less  strange)  is 
the  Athern-bird — a  Somerset  term,  I  believe, 
whose  meaning  I  do  not  know. 

But  now  to  return  to  the  rear-guard  of 
Spring  of  whom  we  spoke  first.  Yet  the  folk- 
lore of  the  house-martin  is  so  familiar  that 
it  need  not  be  alluded  to.  We  all  know  that 
it  is  time  to  think  of  summer  when  the  martin 
clings  once  more  to  her  last  year's  clay-house 
under  the  eaves. 

It  is  when  the  wild-doves  are  heard  in  the 
woods  that  one  realises  the  Spring-Summer 
borderland  is  being  crossed.  When  the  cushat 
calls,  all  the  clans  of  the  bushes  are  at  home, 
runs  a  Highland  saying:  meaning  that  every 
mavis  and  merle  and  finch  is  busy  with  hatch- 
ing the  young  brood,  or  busier  still  feeding 
the  callow  nestlings.  But  when  the  voice  of 
the  turtle  is  heard  in  the  land,  then  Summer 
has  come  over  the  sea  on  the  south  wind, 

213 


The  Summer  Heralds 

and  is  weaving  roses  for  her  coronal  and  will 
be  with  us  while  we  are  yet  unaware. 

What  a  quantity  of  old  lore  one  might  col- 
lect about  the  dove,  and  as  for  the  allusions 
in  ancient  and  modern  literature  they  must  be 
legion — from  the  familiar  Scriptural  phrase 
about  the  turtle  to  Chaucer's  "  the  wedded 
turtil  with  her  hearte  trewe,"  from  Greek 
myth  or  Roman  poem  to  Tennyson's  "  moan 
of  doves  in  immemorial  elms."  Doubtless 
much  of  the  dove-lore  is  so  well  known  that 
it  would  be  superfluous  to  repeat  it  here.  As 
the  symbol  of  peace,  of  the  Spirit,  the  dove 
herself  is  universally  familiar.  The  turtle  is 
also  a  symbol  of  mourning,  and  of  old,  as 
among  the  oak-groves  of  Dodona  or  before 
the  fane  of  Hierapolis,  was  held  sacred  as  the 
bird  of  prophecy,  of  the  soul,  and  of  the  life 
after  death.  It  is  because  of  the  loving  faith- 
fulness of  the  cushat  that  this  bird  was  long 
ago  dedicated  to  Venus ;  and  it  was  because 
Venus  presided  over  both  birth  and  death 
that  the  dove  became  associated  of  old  with 
scenes  so  opposite  as  marriage  festivals  and 
funeral  rites.  We  are  all  familiar  with  the 
legend  that  the  soul  of  a  dying  person  may 
be  seen  departing  like  a  flying  dove,  and  so 
it  was  that  even  a  tame  pigeon  came  to  be 
an  unwelcome  sight  at  the  window  where  any 
214 


The.  Summer  Heralds 

one  lay  in  serious  illness.  In  a  word,  the 
peasant-invalid  might  take  the  bird  to  be 
a  death-messenger,  the  bird  of  the  grave. 
The  most  singular  of  these  folk-supersti- 
tions, I  think,  is  that  in  whose  exercise  a 
living  pigeon  used  to  be  placed  on  the 
head  of  a  dying  man  in  order  to  attract  the 
pain  to  the  bird  and  so  ease  the  sufferer. 
One  wonders  what  became  of  the  unfortunate 
pigeon. 

The  strangest  of  the  northern  legends  is 
that  Swedish  one  which  makes  the  wild-dove 
the  confidant  of  Baldur,  the  Scandinavian  god 
of  song  and  beautiful  love,  before  he  died 
"  the  white  death  "  when  the  ancient  world 
receded  for  ever  at  the  advent  of  Christ.  Still 
do  they  murmur  in  the  woods  of  the  immortal 
passion,  the  deathless  love  of  the  old  gods, 
they  who  long  ago  passed  away  one  knows 
not  whither,  with  Baldur  going  before  them 
harping,  and  singing  a  strange  song.  One 
Gaelic  poetic  name  for  the  cushat  is  poetry 
itself ;  Caoirean-na-coille,  "  the  murmur  of  the 
woods."  The  subtlest  legend  is  that  old-world 
Finnish  identification  of  Aino  the  dove- 
maiden  and  Vaino,  the  male-Venus  of  the 
North,  like  Venus  sea-born,  like  Venus  the 
offspring  of  Zeus  'and  Destiny,  and  as  Aino 
or  Vaino  now  the  singer,  now  the  presiding 

215 


The  Summer  Heralds 

deity  at  marriage  festival  or  during  the  lam- 
entations for  the  dead. 

How  little  we  know  of  this  Vaino  of  the 
Kalevala,  or  of  that  not  less  mysterious  an- 
cient Teutonic  nature-god  Wunsch,  or  of  our 
Gaelic  Angus  6g,  son  of  heaven  and  earth; 
each  of  whom  has  the  wild-dove  for  his  own, 
his  symbol  and  his  mortal  image.  Each  wove 
grass  and  plants  and  greenness  of  trees  out 
of  the  earth  and  the  rain,  out  of  the  sun- 
shine and  the  wind ;  each  spun  flowers  out  of 
dew  and  moonlight  and  the  rose  and  saffron 
of  dawns  and  sunsets.  Each,  too,  created 
strength  in  the  hearts  of  men  and  power  in 
their  bodies,  and  wove  beauty  on  the  faces  of 
women  and  children.  Each  became,  thus,  the 
god  of  happiness,  of  youth,  of  joy.  And  to 
each,  finally,  the  doves  were  dedicated  as 
their  sacred  birds,  their  mortal  image  among 
the  illusions  of  the  world.  So  here  we  pass 
back,  pass  away  from  the  later  tradition  of 
mourning  and  death,  to  the  old  joyousness  of 
Spring,  of  Spring  who  creates  grass  and  plant 
and  flower,  the  strength  of  men  and  the 
beauty  of  women  and  the  gladness  of  chil- 
dren, Spring  who  turns  when  the  apple- 
blossom  fades  and  lets  loose  the  doves  of 
Summer. 

216 


THE    SEA-SPELL 

Old  magical  writers  speak  of  the  elemental 
affinity  which  is  the  veiled  door  in  each  of  us. 
Find  that  door,  and  you  will  be  on  the  se- 
cret road  to  the  soul,  they  say  in  effect. 
Some  are  children  of  fire,  and  some  of  air, 
some  are  of  earth,  and  some  of  water.  They 
even  resolve  mortal  strength  and  weakness, 
our  virtue  and  our  evil,  into  the  movement  of 
these  elements.  This  virtue,  it  is  of  fire :  this 
quality,  it  is  of  air :  this  frailty,  it  is  of  water. 
Howsoever  this  may  be,  some  of  us  are  as- 
suredly of  that  ancient  clan  in  whose  blood, 
as  an  old  legend  has  it,  is  the  water  of  the 
sea.  Many  legends,  many  poems,  many  say- 
ings tell  of  the  Chloinn-na-Mhara,  the  chil- 
dren of  the  sea.  I  have  heard  them  from 
fishermen,  from  inland-shepherds,  from  moor- 
landers  in  inland  solitudes  where  the  only 
visitors  from  the  mysterious  far-off  deep  are 
the  wandering  sea-mews  or  the  cloud  that  has 
climbed  out  of  the  south.  Some  tell  of  the 
terror  of  the  sea,  some  of  its  mysteriousness, 
some  of  the  evil  and  of  the  evil  things  that 
217 


The  Sea-Spell 

belong  to  it  and  are  in  it,  some  of  its  beauty, 
some  of  its  fascination  (as  the  Greeks  of  old- 
time  told  of  the  sirens,  who  were  the  voices 
and  fatal  music  and  the  strange  and  perilous 
loveliness  of  alien  waters),  some  of  the  subtle 
and  secret  spell  deep-buried  in  the  hearts  of 
certain  men  and  women,  the  Chloinn-na- 
Mhara,  a  spell  that  will  brood  there,  and  give 
no  peace,  but  will  compel  the  spirit  to  the 
loneliness  of  the  wind,  and  the  outward  life 
to  the  wayward  turbulence  of  the  wave.  More 
than  two  thousand  years  ago  the  great  Pindar 
had  these  in  mind  when  he  wrote  of  that 
strange  tribe  among  men  "  who  scorn  the 
things  of  home,  and  gaze  on  things  that  are 
afar  off,  and  chase  a  cheating  prey  with  hopes 
that  shall  never  be  fulfilled." 

Elsewhere  I  have  written  much  of  this  sea- 
spell,  of  the  Brbnavara  (to  Anglicise  an  is- 
land word),  or  Sorrow  of  the  Sea,  and  do  not 
wish  to  write  here  of  that  strange  passion  or 
sinister  affinity :  but  of  that  other  and  happier 
Spell  of  the  Sea  which  so  many  of  us  feel, 
with  pleasure  always,  with  delight  often,  at 
times  with  exultation,  as  though  in  our  very 
heart  were  the  sharp  briny  splash  of  the  blue 
wave  tossing  its  white  crest,  or  of  the  green 
billow  falling  like  a  tower  of  jade  in  a  seeth- 
ing flood.  But,  first,  I  recall  that  old  legend 
218 


The  Sea-Spell 

to  which  I  have  alluded.  Perhaps  some  folk- 
lorist  may  recognise  it  as  gathered  out  of  the 
drift  common  to  many  shores,  may  trace  it 
even  to  those  Asian  inlands  where  so  many 
of  our  most  ancient  tales  mysteriously  arose ; 
but  I  have  nowhere  met  with  it  in  print,  nor 
seen  nor  heard  allusion  to  it,  other  than  in  a 
crude  fashioning  on  the  lips  of  simple  Gaelic 
folk,  nor  even  there  for  years  upon  years. 
There  were  once  four  cities  (the  Western 
Gael  will  generally  call  them  Gorias  and 
Falias,  Finias  and  Murias),  the  greatest  and 
most  beautiful  of  the  cities  of  those  ancient 
tribes  of  beauty,  the  offspring  of  angels  and 
the  daughters  of  earth.  The  fair  women  were 
beautiful,  but  lived  like  flowers,  and  like  flow- 
ers faded  and  were  no  more,  for  they  were 
filled  with  happiness,  as  cups  of  ivory  filled 
with  sunlit  dancing  wine,  but  were  soulless. 
Eve,  that  sorrowful  loveliness,  was  not  yet 
born.  Adam  was  not  yet  lifted  out  of  the 
dust  of  Eden.  Finias  was  the  gate  of  Eden 
to  the  South,  Murias  to  the  West:  in  the 
North,  Falias  was  crowned  by  a  great  star: 
in  the  East,  Gorias,  the  city  of  gems,  flashed 
like  sunrise.  There  the  deathless  clan  of  the 
sky  loved  the  children  of  Lilith.  On  the  day 
when  Adam  uttered  the  sacred  name  and  be- 
came king  of  the  world,  a  great  sighing  was 
219 


The  Sea-Spell 

heard  in  Gorias  in  the  East  and  in  Finias  in 
the  South,  in  Murias  in  the  West  and  in 
Falias  in  the  North:  and  when  morn  was 
come  the  women  were  no  more  awakened  by 
the  stirring  of  wings  and  the  sunrise-flight 
of  their  angelic  lovers.  They  came  no  more. 
And  when  Eve  awoke  by  the  side  of  Adam, 
and  he  looked  on  her,  and  saw  the  immortal 
mystery  in  the  eyes  of  this  mortal  loveliness, 
lamentations  and  farewells  and  voices  of  twi- 
light were  heard  in  Murias  by  the  margin  of 
the  sea  and  in  Gorias  high-set  among  her 
peaks ;  in  the  secret  gardens  of  Falias,  and 
where  the  moonlight  hung  like  a  spear  above 
the  towers  of  Finias  upon  the  great  plain. 
The  children  of  Lilith  were  gone  away  upon 
the  wind,  as  lifted  dust,  as  dew,  as  shadow,  as 
the  unreturning  leaf.  Adam  rose,  and  bade 
Eve  go  to  the  four  solitudes,  and  bring  back 
the  four  ancient  secrets  of  the  world.  So  Eve 
went  to  Gorias,  and  found  nothing  there  but 
a  flame  of  fire.  She  lifted  it  and  hid  it  in 
her  heart.  At  noon  she  came  to  Finias,  and 
found  nothing  there  but  a  spear  of  white 
light.  She  took  it  and  hid  it  in  her  mind. 
At  dusk  she  came  to  Falias,  and  found  noth- 
ing there  but  a  star  in  the  darkness.  She 
hid  the  darkness,  and  the  star  within  the  dark- 
ness, in  her  womb.  At  moonrise  she  came  to 
220 


The  Sea-Spell 

Murias,  by  the  shores  of  the  ocean.  There 
she  saw  nothing  but  a  wandering  light.  So 
she  stooped,  and  lifted  a  wave  of  the  sea  and 
hid  it  in  her  blood.  And  when  Eve  was  come 
again  to  Adam,  she  gave  him  the  flame  she 
had  found  in  Gorias,  and  the  spear  of  light 
she  had  found  in  Finias.  "  In  Falias,"  she 
said,  "  I  found  that  which  I  cannot  give,  but 
the  darkness  I  have  hidden  shall  be  your 
darkness,  and  the  star  shall  be  your  star." 
"  Tell  me  what  you  found  in  Murias  by  the 
sea  ?  "  asked  Adam.  "  Nothing,"  answered 
Eve.  But  Adam  knew  that  she  lied.  "  I  saw 
a  wandering  light,"  she  said.  He  sighed,  and 
believed.  But  Eve  kept  the  wave  of  the  sea 
hidden  in  her  blood.  So  has  it  been  that  a 
multitude  of  women  have  been  homeless  as 
the  wave,  and  their  heritage  salt  as  the  sea: 
and  that  some  among  their  sons  and  daugh- 
ters have  been  possessed  by  that  vain  cold 
fire,  and  that  inappeasable  trouble,  and  the 
restlessness  of  water.  So  it  is  that  to  the 
end  of  time  some  shall  have  the  salt  sea  in 
the  blood,  and  the  troubled  wave  in  the  heart, 
and  be  homeless. 

But  thoughts  like  these,  legends  like  these, 
are  for  the  twilight  hour,  or  for  the  silent 
people  who  live  in  isles  and  remote  places. 
For  most  of  us,  for  those  of  us  who  do 

221 


The  Sea-Spell 

not  dwell  by  lonely  shores  and  seldom  behold 
the  sea  but  in  the  quiet  seasons,  it  is  either  a 
delight  or  an  oppression.  Some  can  no  more 
love  it,  or  can  have  any  well-being  or  com- 
posure near  it,  than  others  can  be  well  or 
content  where  vast  moors  reach  from  skyline 
to  skyline,  or  amid  the  green  solemnities  of 
forests,  or  where  stillness  inhabits  the  hollows 
of  hills.  But  for  those  who  do  love  it,  what 
a  joy  it  is !  The  Sea  .  .  .  the  very  words 
have  magic.  It  is  like  the  sound,  of  a  horn 
in  woods,  like  the  sound  of  a  bugle  in  the 
dusk,  like  the  cry  of  wind  leaping  the  long 
bastions  of  silence.  To  many  of  us  there  is  no 
call  like  it,  no  other  such  clarion  of  gladness. 
But  when  one  speaks  of  the  sea  it  is  as 
though  one  should  speak  of  summer  or 
winter,  of  spring  or  autumn.  It  has  many 
aspects :  it  is  not  here  what  it  is  yonder, 
yonder  it  is  not  what  it  is  afar  off :  here,  even, 
it  is  not  in  August  what  it  is  when  the  March 
winds,  those  steel-blue  courses,  are  unleashed ; 
the  grey-green  calms  of  January  differ  from 
the  purple-grey  calms  of  September,  and  No- 
vember leaning  in  mist  across  the  dusk  of 
wavering  horizons  is  other  than  azure-robed 
and  cirrus-crowned  May  moving  joyously 
across  a  glorious  tossing  wilderness  of  blue 
and  white.  The  blue  sea  frothed  with  wind 
222 


The  Sea-Spell 

has  ever  been  a  salutation  of  joy.  ^Eschylos 
sounded  the  note  of  rapture  which  has  since 
echoed  through  poetry  and  romance :  that 
"  multitudinous  laughter  "  struck  a  vibration 
which  time  has  never  dulled  nor  lessened.  It 
has  been  an  exultation  above  all  in  the  litera- 
tures of  the  north.  Scandinavian  poetry  is 
full  of  the  salt  brine ;  there  is  not  a  viking- 
saga  that  is  not  wet  with  the  spray  of  surg- 
ing seas.  Through  all  the  primitive  tales  and 
songs  of  the  Gael  one  feels  the  intoxication 
of  the  blue  wine  of  the  running  wave.  In  the 
Icelandic  sagas  it  is  like  a  clashing  of  shields. 
It  calls  through  the  Ossianic  chants  like  a 
tide.  Every  Gaelic  song  of  exile  has  the 
sound  of  it,  as  in  the  convolutions  of  a  shell. 
The  first  Gaelic  poet  rejoiced  at  the  call  of 
the  sea,  and  bowed  before  the  chanting  of  a 
divine  voice.  In  his  madness,  Cuchulain 
fought  with  the  racing  billows  on  the  Irish 
Coast,  striving  with  them  as  joy-intoxicated 
foes,  laughing  against  their  laughter:  to  the 
dark  waves  of  Coruisk,  in  the  Isle  of  Skye, 
he  rushed  with  a  drawn  sword,  calling  to 
these  wise  warriors  of  the  sea  to  advance  in 
their  proud  hosts  that  he  might  slay  them. 
Sigurd  and  Brynhild,  Gunhild  and  Olaf,  Tor- 
quil  and  Swaran  and  Haco,  do  they  not  sound 
like  the  names  of  waves  ?  How  good  that  old- 
223 


The  Sea-Spell 

world  rejoicing  in  the  great  green  wilderness 
of  waters,  in  the  foam-swept  blue  meads,  in 
the  cry  of  the  wind  and  the  chant  of  the  bil- 
lows and  the  sharp  sting  of  flying  scud?  It 
is  of  to-day  also.  A  multitude  of  us  rejoice 
as  those  of  old  rejoiced,  though  we  have 
changed  in  so  much  with  all  the  incalculable 
change  of  the  years.  To-day  as  then  the 
poets  of  the  isles  .  .  .  the  poet  in  the  heart 
of  each  of  us  who  loves  the  glory  and  beauty 
and  in  any  degree  feels  the  strong  spell  of 
the  sea  .  .  .  answer  to  that  clarion-music :  as 
in  this  Evoe!  by  one  of  the  latest  among 
them : — 

"Oceanward,  the  sea-horses  sweep  magnificently, 
champing  and  whirling  white  foam  about  their  green 
flanks,  and  tossing  on  high  their  manes  of  sunlit 
rainbow-gold,  dazzling  white  and  multitudinous,  far 
as  sight  can  reach. 

"O,  champing  horses  of  my  soul,  toss,  toss  on 
high  your  sunlit  manes,  your  manes  of  rainbow-gold, 
dazzling-white  and  multitudinous,  for  I  too  rejoice, 
rejoice!" 

And  who  of  us  will  forget  that  great  Eng- 
lish poet  of  to-day,  that  supreme  singer  of — 

"Sky,  and  shore,  and  cloud,  and  waste,  and  sea," 

who  has  written  so  often  and  so  magically  of 
the  spell  of  the  sea  and  of  the  elation  of  those 


The  Sea-Spell 

who  commit  themselves  to  the  sway  and 
rhythm  of  its  moving  waters : — 

"The  grey  sky  gleams  and  the  grey  seas  glimmer, 

Pale  and  sweet  as  a  dream's  delight, 
As   a   dream's   where    darkness   and   light   seem 

dimmer, 

Touched  by  dawn  or  subdued  by  night. 
The  dark  wind,  stern  and  sublime  and  sad, 
Swings  the  rollers  to  westward,  clad 
With  lustrous  shadow  that  lures  the  swimmer, 
Lures  and  lulls  him  with  dreams  of  light. 

"Light,  and  sleep,  and  delight,  and  wonder, 

Change,  and  rest,  and  a  charm  of  cloud, 
Fill  the  world  of  the  skies  whereunder 

Heaves  and  quivers  and  pants  aloud 
All  the  world  of  the  waters,  hoary 
Now,  but  clothed  with  its  own  live  glory, 
That  mates  the  lightning  and  mocks  the  thunder 
With  light  more  living  and  word  more  proud. 

"A  dream,  and  more  than  a  dream,  and  dimmer 
At  once  and  brighter  than  dreams  that  flee, 

The  moment's  joy  of  the  seaward  swimmer 
Abides,  remembered  as  truth  may  be. 

Not  all  the  joy  and  not  all  the  glory 

Must  fade  as  leaves  when  the  woods  wax  hoary; 

For  there  the  downs  and  the  sea-banks  glimmer, 
And  here  to  south  of  them  swells  the  sea." 

What  swimmer  too,  who  loves  this  poet,  but 
will  recall  the  marvellous  sea-shine  line  in 
"  Thalassius  ": 

225 


The  Sea-Spell 

"Dense  water- walls  and  clear  dusk  waterways  .  .  . 
The  deep  divine  dark  day  shine  of  the  sea " 

It  is  this  exquisite  miracle  of  transparency 
which  gives  the  last  secret  of  beauty  to  water. 
All  else  that  we  look  upon  is  opaque:  the 
mountain  in  its  sundown  purple  or  noon- 
azure,  the  meadows  and  fields,  the  gathered 
greenness  of  woods,  the  loveliness  of  massed 
flowers,  the  myriad  wonder  of  the  universal 
grass,  even  the  clouds  that  trail  their  shadows 
upon  the  hills,  or  soar  so  high  into  frozen 
deeps  of  azure  that  they  pass  shadowless  like 
phantoms  or  the  creatures  of  dreams  —  the 
beauty  of  all  these  is  opaque.  But  the  beauty 
of  water  is  that  it  is  transparent.  Think  if 
the  grass,  if  the  leaves  of  the  tree,  if  the 
rose  and  the  iris  and  the  pale  horns  of  the 
honeysuckle,  if  the  great  mountains  built  of 
grey  steeps  of  granite  and  massed  purple  of 
shadow  were  thus  luminous,  thus  trans- 
parent !  Think  if  they,  too,  as  the  sea,  could 
reflect  the  passage  of  saffron-sailed  and  rose- 
flusht  argosies  of  cloud,  or  mirror  as  in  the 
calms  of  ocean  the  multitudinous  undulation 
of  the  blue  sky !  This  divine  translucency  is 
but  a  part  of  the  Sea-Spell,  which  holds  us 
from  childhood  to  old  age  in  wonder  and  de- 
light, but  that  part  is  its  secret  joy,  its  in- 
communicable charm. 

226 


SUMMER   CLOUDS 

For  one  who  has  lived  so  much  among  the 
hills  and  loves  the  mountain  solitude  it  may 
seem  strange  to  aver  that  the  most  uplifting 
and  enduring  charm  in  Nature  is  to  be  found 
in  amplitude  of  space.  Low  and  rolling  lands 
give  what  no  highlands  allow.  If  in  these  the 
miraculous  surprise  of  cloud  is  a  perpetual 
new  element  of  loveliness,  it  is  loveliness  it- 
self that  unfolds  when  an  interminable  land 
recedes  from  an  illimitable  horizon,  and,  be- 
longing to  each  and  yet  remote  from  either, 
clouds  hang  like  flowers,  or  drift  like  medusae, 
or  gather  mysteriously  as  white  bergs  in  the 
pale  azure  of  arctic  seas. 

We  are  apt  to  be  deceived  by  the  formal 
grandeur  of  mountains,  by  the  massed  co- 
lours and  contours  of  upbuilded  heights, 
whether  lying  solitarily  like  vast  sleeping 
saurians,  or  gathered  in  harmonious,  if  tumul- 
tuous, disarray.  There  is  a  beauty  that  is 
uniquely  of  the  hills.  The  mountain  lands 
have  that  which  no  lowland  has.  But  in  that 
company  we  shall  not  find  what  the  illimit- 
227 


Summer  Clouds 

able  level  lands  will  afford,  what  inhabits  the 
wilderness,  what  is  the  revelation  of  the  des- 
ert, what  is  the  lovely  magic  of  the  horizons 
of  the  sea.  By  the  sombre  reaches  of  the 
Solway,  in  the  fenlands  of  East  Anglia,  in 
the  immensity  of  the  great  bog  which  cinc- 
tures Ireland,  in  the  illimitable  lowland  from 
Flanders  to  the  last  brine-whitened  Frisian 
meadows,  I  have  seen  a  quality  of  aerial 
beauty  that  I  have  not  in  like  loveliness  else- 
where found.  Who  that  in  mid-ocean  has 
long  watched  the  revelation  of  distance  and 
the  phantasmagoria  of  cloud  during  serene 
days,  or  from  island  shores  looked  across 
limitless  waters  till  the  far  blue  line  seemed 
lifted  to  the  purple-shadowed  bases  of  lean- 
ing palaces,  can  think  of  an  excelling  loveli- 
ness ?  Who  that  has  seen  the  four-fold  azure, 
in  east  and  west,  in  north  and  south,  over  the 
desert,  and  watched  the  secret  veils  of  a  sin- 
gle pavilion  of  rose-flusht  cumulus  slowly  be 
undone,  till  the  vision  is  become  a  phantom, 
and  the  phantom  is  become  a  dream,  and  the 
dream  is  become  a  whiteness  and  stillness 
deep-sinking  into  fathomless  blue,  can  forget 
that  the  impassive  beauty  of  the  wilderness  is 
more  searching  and  compelling  than  the  con- 
tinual miracle  of  wind-swept  Alp  and  cloud- 
shadowed  highland ;  that  it  has,  in  its  majesty 
228 


Summer  Clouds 

of  silence  and  repose,  that  which  is  perpetual 
on  the  brows  of  Andes  and  does  not  pass 
from  Himalaya? 

Perhaps  in  sheer  beauty  of  pictorial  isola- 
tion clouds  are  most  lovely  when  viewed 
above  sea  horizons,  from  shores  of  islands,  or 
promontories,  or  remote  headlands.  In  the 
South  this  beauty  is  possibly  more  dream- 
like, more  poignantly  lovely,  than  in  the 
North.  Certainly,  I  have  nowhere  known 
cloud  beauty  excelling  that  in  the  Mediterra- 
nean and  Ionian  seas,  viewed  from  the  Span- 
ish coast,  from  the  Balearic  Isles,  over  against 
the  mountain-bastions  of  Sardinia  and  Cor- 
sica, from  the  headlands  of  Sicily,  where 
Ithaka  and  Zante  are  as  great  galleys  in  a 
magic  ocean,  where  for  weeks  at  midsummer 
the  wine-dark  waters  are  untroubled  between 
the  cliffs  of  Hellas  and  the  sands  of  Alex- 
andria. Perhaps.  It  is  difficult  to  say  of  any 
region  that  there  beauty  is  more  wonderfully 
revealed  than  elsewhere.  It  comes,  and  is 
present,  and  is  upgathered ;  as  the  wind,  that 
has  no  home,  that  the  shaken  reed  knows, 
that  crumbles  the  crests  of  ancient  hills ;  as 
the  rainbow,  which  is  the  same  aerial  flame 
upon  Helicon,  upon  Ida,  on  the  green  glen  of 
Aghadoe,  on  the  steeps  of  Hecla  in  the  Heb- 
rides, that  gives  majesty  and  wonder  to  the 
229 


Summer  Clouds 

village  green,  and  delivers  mystery  on  the 
horizons  of  the  frequented  common.  It  is 
like  light,  whose  incalculable  arrivals  are 
myriad,  but  which  when  most  steadfast  is 
most  dreamlike,  a  phantom :  as  moonlight  on 
the  mysterious  upturned  face  of  great  woods ; 
or  as  when,  on  illimitable  moors,  the  dew 
glistens  on  the  tangled  bent  and  pale  flood  of 
orchis  where  the  lapwings  nest ;  or  in  golden 
fire,  as  when  at  the  solstice  the  sorrel  in  the 
meadows  and  the  tansy  in  the  wastes  and  the 
multitude  of  the  dandelion  are  transmuted 
into  a  mirage  of  red  and  yellow  flame;  or 
in  rippling  flood  of  azure  and  silver,  when 
the  daysprings  loosen ;  or  in  scarlet  and  pur- 
ple and  chrysoprase,  when  the  South  is  as  a 
clouded  opal  and  the  West  is  the  silent  con- 
flagration of  the  world.  There  is  not  a  hidden 
glen  among  the  lost  hills,  there  is  not  an 
unvisited  shore,  there  is  not  a  city  swathed 
in  smoke  and  drowned  in  many  clamours, 
where  light  is  not  a  continual  miracle,  where 
from  dayset  to  dawn,  from  the  rising  of  the 
blue  to  the  gathering  of  shadow,  the  wind  is 
not  habitual  as  are  the  reinless,  fierce,  un- 
swerving tides  of  the  sea.  Beauty,  and  Light, 
and  Wind :  they  who  are  so  common  in  our 
companionship  and  so  continual  in  mystery, 
are  as  one  in  this — that  none  knows  whence 
230 


Summer  Clouds 

the  one  or  the  other  is  come,  or  where  any 
has  the  last  excellence  or  differs  save  in  the 
vibration  of  ecstasy,  or  whither  the  one  or  the 
other  is  gone,  when  the  moment,  on  whose 
wings  it  came  or  on  whose  brows  it  stood 
revealed,  is  no  longer  Eternity  speaking  the 
language  of  Time,  but  the  silence  of  what  is 
already  timeless  and  no  more. 

It  has  been  said,  less  wisely  than  dis- 
dainfully, that  the  chief  element  of  beauty  is 
destroyed  when  one  knows  the  secret  of  sem- 
blance. Clouds,  then,  are  forfeit  in  loveliness 
when  one  knows  the  causes  of  their  transfor- 
mation, their  superb  illusion?  Not  so.  Has 
the  rose  lost  in  beauty,  has  she  relinquished 
fragrance,  for  all  that  we  have  learned  of  her 
blind  roots,  the  red  ichor  in  her  petals,  the 
green  pigment  in  her  stem,  her  hunger  that 
must  be  fed  in  coarse  earth,  her  thirst  that 
must  be  quenched  in  rain  and  dew,  her  desire 
that  must  mate  with  light?  Is  the  rainbow 
the  less  a  lovely  mystery  because  we  know 
that  it  is  compact  of  the  round,  colourless 
raindrops  such  as  fall  upon  us  in  any  shower  ? 
Is  the  blue  of  an  unclouded  sky  the  less 
poignant  for  us  if  we  know  that  the  sunlight 
which  inhabits  it  is  there,  not  the  yellow  or 
red  or  suffused  white  which  we  discern,  but 
itself  an  ineffable  azure;  that,  there,  the  sun 
231 


Summer  Clouds 

itself  is  not  golden  or  amber  or  bronze,  but 
violet-blue  ? 

I  remember  it  was  complained  once  of 
something  I  wrote  ...  in  effect,  that  cloud 
was  the  visible  breathing,  the  suspended 
breath  of  earth  .  .  .  that  the  simile  was  as 
inept  as  it  was  untrue.  None  who  knows 
how  cloud  is  formed  will  dispute  the  truth  in 
similitude :  as  to  disillusion,  can  that  be  "  un- 
poetic"  which  is  so  strange  and  beautiful  a 
thing?  The  breath  of  a  little  child  born  in 
the  chill  of  dawn,  the  breath  of  old  age  fading 
into  the  soon  untroubled  surface  of  the  mirror 
held  against  silent  lips,  the  breath  of  the 
shepherd  on  the  hills,  of  the  seamen  on  dark 
nights  under  frost-blue  stars,  the  breath  of 
cows  on  the  morning  pastures,  of  the  stag 
panting  by  the  tarn,  the  breath  of  woods,  of 
waters,  of  straths,  of  the  plains,  of  the  brows 
of  hills,  the  breath  of  the  grass,  the  breathing 
of  the  tremulous  reed  and  the  shaken  leaf 
.  .  .  are  not  these  the  continual  vapour  of  life ; 
and  what  is  cloud  but  the  continual  breath  of 
our  most  deep  and  ancient  friend,  the  brown 
earth,  our  cradle,  our  home,  and  our  haven? 

If  any  reader  wish  to  fed  the  invisible  mak- 
ing of  the  cloud  that  shall  afterward  rise  on 
white  wings  or  stream  like  a  banner  from 
mountain-bastions,  let  him  stand  on  the  slopes 
232 


Summer  Clouds 

of  a  furrowed  hill  in  this  midsummer  season. 
He  will  then  feel  the  steady,  upflowing  tide  of 
the  warm  air  from  the  low-lying  glens  and 
valleys,  a  constant  tepid  draught,  the  breath 
of  the  earth.  It  will  not  be  long  before  the 
current  which  shook  yonder  rose-flusht  briar, 
which  swayed  these  harebells  as  foam  is 
blown,  which  lifted  yonder  rowan-branch  and 
softly  trampled  this  bracken  underfoot,  is 
gathered  by  scaur  and  sudden  corrie  to  the 
sheer  scarps  of  the  mountain-summit,  to  be 
impelled  thence,  as  a  geyser  is  thrown  from 
an  imperious  fount,  high  into  the  cold  and 
windy  solitude.  There  it  may  suddenly  be 
transmuted  to  an  incalculable  host  of  invisi- 
ble ice-needles,  and  become  cirrus ;  to  float 
like  thistledown,  or  to  be  innumerably  scat- 
tered in  wisps  and  estrays,  or  long  "  grey- 
mares'-tails,"  or  dispersed  like  foam  among 
vast,  turbulent  shallows.  Or  it  may  keep  to 
the  lee-side  of  the  mountain-summit,  and 
stretch  far  like  a  serrated  sword,  or  undulat- 
ingly  extend  like  a  wind-narrowed  banner, 
covering  as  a  flag  the  climbing  armies  of  pine 
and  boulder  and  the  inscrutable  array  of 
shadow. 

Cirrus  .  .  .  what  a  beauty  there  is  in  the 
familiar  name :  what  beauty  of  association  for 
all  who  love  the  pageant  of  cloud,  and,  lov- 

233 


Summer  Clouds 

ing,  know  somewhat  of  the  science  of  the 
meteorologist.  It  is  not  alone  in  this :  mem- 
ory and  imagination  are  alike  stirred  by  the 
names  of  the  three  other  of  the  four  main 
divisions  of  Cloud — the  Cumulus,  the  Stratus, 
the  Nimbus.  From  the  grey  and  purple  of 
earthward  nimbus  to  the  salmon-pink  bastions 
of  the  towering  cumuli,  those  unloosened 
mountains  of  the  middle  air,  those  shifting 
frontiers  of  the  untravelled  lands  of  heaven, 
and  thence  to  the  dazzling  whiteness  of  the 
last  frozen  pinnacles  of  cirrus,  all  loveliness 
of  colour  may  be  found.  Neither  brush  of 
painter  nor  word  of  poet  can  emulate  those 
apparitions  of  gold  and  scarlet,  of  purple  and 
emerald,  of  opal  and  saffron  and  rose.  There 
every  shade  of  dove-brown  and  willow-grey, 
every  subterfuge  of  shadow  and  shine,  can  be 
seen. 

The  cloud-lover  will  know  that  these  four 
great  divisions  are  but  terms  of  convenience. 
There  are  intervening  children  of  beauty. 
Betwixt  the  earth-held,  far-reaching  nimbus 
and  the  climbing  cumulus,  whose  forehead  is 
so  often  bathed  in  the  rarest  fires  of  sunset, 
is  the  cumulo-nimbus.  Between  the  cumulus 
and  the  stratus,  whose  habitual  grey  robe  can 
be  so  swiftly  made  radiant  in  yellow  and 
orange  and  burning  reds,  is  the  strato- 

234 


Summer  Clouds 

cumulus:  a  sombre  clan  in  the  upper  wilder- 
ness, heavy  with  brooding  rains,  moving  in 
dark  folds,  less  persuaded  of  the  great  winds 
which  may  drive  the  as  silent  seeming  stratus, 
some  ten  thousand  feet  higher  it  may  be,  at 
the  lightning  speed  of  the  eagle.  Between 
the  stratus  and  cirrus  there  are  the  cirro- 
cumulus  and  the  cirro-stratus.  The  former 
is  in  one  form  as  commonly  welcome  as  beau- 
tiful, the  familiar  "  mackerel-sky,"  harbinger 
of  fair  weather — in  another,  it  is  the  soft  dap- 
pled sky  that  moonlight  will  turn  into  the 
most  poignant  loveliness,  a  wilderness  of 
fleecy  hillocks  and  delicate  traceries.  The 
latter  is  that  drift-ice  or  broken-up  snow-field 
enmassing  which  is  so  familiar.  Both  march 
from  horizon  to  horizon  in  ordered  majesty, 
though  when  they  seem  like  idle  vapours 
motionlessly  suspended  along  the  blue  walls 
of  heaven  they  are  rustling  their  sheaves  of 
frost-fire  armour,  are  soaring  to  more  than 
twenty  thousand  feet  above  the  earth,  and  are 
surging  onward  with  impetuous  rush  at  the 
rate  of  from  seventy  to  eighty  miles  an  hour. 
I  have  called  them  the  children  of  beauty. 
But  these  children  of  cloud  are  many.  In 
each  division,  in  each  subdivision,  there  is 
again  complex  division.  In  a  Gaelic  story  or 
poem-saga  they  are  called  "  the  Homeless 

235 


Summer  Clouds 

Clan."  It  is  a  beautiful  name.  But  they  are 
not  homeless  whom  the  great  winds  of  the 
upper  world  eternally  shepherd,  who  have 
their  mortal  hour  in  beauty  and  strength  and 
force,  and,  instead  of  the  havens  and  graves 
and  secret  places  of  the  creatures  of  earth, 
know  a  divine  perpetual  renewal. 


236 


THE   CUCKOO'S    SILENCE 

There  is  silence  now  in  the  woods.  That 
spirit  of  the  south  wind,  that  phantom  voice 
of  the  green  tides  of  May,  has  passed:  that 
which  was  a  wandering  dream  is  become  a 
haunting  memory.  Whence  is  the  cuckoo 
come,  whither  does  the  cuckoo  go?  When 
our  leaves  grow  russet  and  the  fern  clothes 
herself  in  bronze  and  pale  gold,  what  land 
hears  that  thrilling  call  in  ancient  groves,  or 
above  old  unvisited  forests,  or  where  arid 
declivities  plunge  into  the  gathering  sands  of 
the  desert?  Whither  is  gone  Sinlinda,  the 
summer  bird,  as  the  Esthonians  call  her:  she 
who  has  been  a  voice  in  the  far  Orkneys  (a 
daughter,  it  may  be,  of  that  cuckoo-queen 
who  bore  Modred  to  King  Arthur,  Modred 
the  Pict  who  afterward  wrought  so  great  evil 
upon  Arthur  and  his  knights),  or  cried  the 
sighing  of  vain  love  above  the  hills  of  the 
Gael,  or  in  Sweden  swung  on  the  north  wind 
as  the  sorg-gok,  uttering  "  sorrow,"  or  floated 
out  of  the  east  as  the  troste-gok,  calling  "  con- 
solation "  ?  When  Finland  loses  her,  and  the 

237 


The  Cuckoo's  Silence 

Baltic  peasant  no  more  counts  with  dread  the 
broken  cries,  and  she  has  passed  from  the 
Irish  valleys,  so  that  men  and  women  are  safe 
for  another  year  from  the  wildness  of  wild 
love,  whither  is  she  gone?  Like  a  dream  her 
voice  fades  from  Broceliande,  is  heard  no 
more  by  Fontarabia,  has  no  echo  in  the  wood 
of  Vallombrosa.  In  the  last  reaches  of  the 
Danube  she  no  longer  mocks  love;  above  the 
Siberian  steppe  the  exile  no  more  hears  her 
ironic  Go!  Go!  from  the  dim  Campagna  she 
is  lifted  into  silence,  sospir  d'amore:  she  is 
not  heard  across  the  waters  of  Corinth  from 
that  fallen  temple  where  Zeus  took  her  form 
upon  him,  nor  is  the  shadow  of  her  wings  in 
that  wild  mountain-valley  of  Mykenai,  where 
Agamemnon  and  Clytaimnestra  sleep,  where 
once  the  marble  statue  of  divine  Hera  stood 
bearing  on  a  sceptre  her  perilous  image. 
Where,  then,  is  she  gone,  she  who  from  the 
dim  Asian  valleys  to  the  Aztec  wilderness, 
from  one  world  to  another,  is  the  mysterious 
voice  of  wandering  love;  she  who  is,  in  one 
place,  to  be  hailed  with  hymns  of  gladness,  in 
another  to  be  hearkened  to  with  bowed  head 
or  averted  eyes?  For  thus  it  is,  even  to-day, 
among  the  ancient  remnant  in  Mexico  and 
the  Calif ornian  wilds,  who  hear  with  terror 
that  foreboding  flute-like  voice  calling  out  of 

238 


The  Cuckoo's  Silence 

the  unseen  world:  thus  it  was  in  the  Hima- 
layan solitudes  of  old  when  the  Sanskrit  vil- 
lagers hailed  the  cuckoo  as  a  divine  messen- 
ger, Kakila,  the  bird  who  knows  all  things, 
not  only  what  has  happened,  but  what  shall 
happen. 

She  has  troubled  many  minds,  this  wan- 
derer. It  could  not  be  otherwise.  What 
mysterious  music,  this,  when  through  the 
grey  lands  of  the  north  the  south  wind  went 
laughing  on  a  vast  illimitable  surge  of  green 
and  foam  of  blossom?  One  morning,  when 
the  missel-thrush  was  silent  and  even  the  sky- 
larks sank  through  the  hazy  stillness,  a  far 
cry  would  be  heard,  a  sound  from  the  un- 
known, a  bell  out  of  heaven.  It  would  float 
bodiless  through  the  blue  air,  or  call  softly 
like  an  imprisoned  echo  in  the  coverts  of  grey 
cloud.  Then  those  who  heard  would  know 
that  Summer  had  ceased  from  wearing  her 
robe  of  white  and  green  and  yellow,  and  with 
sun-browned  hands  was  gathering  roses  for 
her  May  garland,  her  June  coronal.  The  bird 
of  love  is  come.  The  sighing  heart,  the  beat- 
ing pulse,  know  it.  She  is  come,  voice  out  of 
the  sea,  voice  across  waters,  Aphrodite  of 
sound.  Long,  long  ago  this  voice,  this  dim- 
remembered  myth,  was  transmuted  into  Or- 
pheus in  the  south,  into  Lemminkainen  by  the 

239 


The  Cuckoo's  Silence 

singers  of  the  Kalevala,  into  Sigurd  across 
the  Scandinavian  fjords,  into  Kukkolind  along 
the  Esthonian  wastes  into  Cuchulaind  among 
the  Irish  hills,  into  Coohoolin  beside  the  foam 
of  the  Hebrides.  My  old  nurse  had  a  Gaelic 
song  I  have  forgotten,  all  save  its  refrain, 
which  was 

"Gu-Gu,  Gu-Gu, 
A  cuisilin  a-ghraidh, 
Cuisilin  mo-chridhe!" 

"Cuckoo!  Cuckoo! 
O  pulse  of  love, 
Pulse  of  my  heart!" 

In  the  first  movement  of  the  or  an  the  singer 
called  to  the  cuckoo  to  come,  "  Blue-bird  of 
love."  Why  "  blue-bird "  I  am  unaware, 
though  among  the  Finns  and  Esths  "  blue- 
bird "  is  a  poetic  analogue  for  the  cuckoo.  In 
the  second  lift  of  the  oran,  the  singer  cried, 
"  It  is  come,  it  is  come,  bird  of  love,  bird  of 
joy."  In  the  third  fall  the  singer  crooned, 
"  It  is  gone,  bird  of  sorrow,  bird  of  foam, 
bird  of  the  grey  wind."  And  after  each  the 
swift  and  passionate  or  long,  melancholy,  and 
sorrowful  refrain 

"Gu-Gu!  Gu-Gu! 
O  cushleen  a-ghr&y 
Cushleen  mo-chree!" 
240 


The  Cuckoo's  Silence 

"  The  returning  one  "  the  cuckoo  is  called  in 
an  old  saga.  It  is  the  ancient  mystery,  Love, 
the  son  of  Earth:  the  wildwood  brother  of 
him,  that  other  Love,  who  puts  aside  the 
green  branches  of  home  to  long  for  the  shin- 
ing stars,  who  sighs  unappeased  by  white 
breasts  and  dreams  of  one  beautiful  and  far- 
off,  made  of  the  wandering  rainbow,  of  the 
dew,  of  the  fragrance  of  flowers.  The  one 
comes  with  the  green  wind  and  goes  with  the 
grey  wind:  the  other  puts  on  blindness  as 
divine  vision,  and  deafness  as  a  sacred  veil, 
and  wooes  Psyche. 

All  old  primitive  tales  know  the  advent  of 
this  mysterious  bird.  Was  not,  as  I  have  said, 
the  divine  Hera  herself  wooed  thus  by  Zeus? 
In  that  ancient  Heraion,  in  the  heart  of  the 
Peloponnesos  which  Pausanias  saw,  he  tells 
us  of  a  statue  of  the  goddess  whose  sceptre 
bore  the  image  of  this  spring-born  voice  of 
eternal  love  and  eternal  illusion.  The  people 
loved  it  not,  for  in  their  eyes  the  story  cov- 
ered an  evil  thing:  but  the  priests  bowed  be- 
fore an  ancient  mystery,  and  the  poets  smiled, 
and  the  musicians  paused  and  wondered  and 
struck  a  new  vibrant  note.  In  every  country 
there  are  oldtime  tales  of  the  cuckoo  with  the 
attributes  of  a  god,  or  demigod,  or  at  least 
of  magic  and  illusion.  When,  in  the  great 
241 


The  Cuckoo's  Silence 

Northern  saga,  Ilmarinen,  the  son  of  Won- 
dersmith  and  the  Air,  goes  north  to  woo  the 
snow-bound  princess  .  .  .  what  but  another 
lovely  metaphor  of  Spring  calling  to  the 
North  to  cover  herself  with  the  snow-blos- 
som of  betrothal  and  the  roses  and  honey- 
suckles of  procreant  love  ...  he  orders  thus 
the  outbringing  of  his  sleigh: 

"Take  the  fleetest  of  my  racers, 
Put  the  grey  steed  in  the  harness, 
Hitch  him  to  my  sledge  of  magic: 
Place  six  cuckoos  on  the  break-board, 
Seven  blue-birds  on  the  crossbow, 
Thus  to  charm  the  northland  maidens, 
Thus  to  make  them  look  and  listen 
As  the  cuckoos  call  and  echo." 

The  wind,  that  grey  steed,  fleetest  of  racers, 
the  calling  of  cuckoos,  the  northland  maidens 
charmed  to  silence  among  awakening  fields  or 
amid  the  first  green  stirring  of  grass-blades 
and  pointed  leaf:  is  not  Ilmarinen,  son  of 
Wondersmith  and  the  Air,  the  veritable 
cuckoo-god  ? 

If  ever  the  cuckoo-myth  find  its  historian 
one  will  learn  how  widespread  and  basic  it  is. 
We  follow  it  from  Orpheus  himself  to  the 
myth  of  Saturn  and  Rhea,  to  that  of  Faunus 
and  Fauna,  to  Siegfried  in  the  north,  to  Cu- 
242 


The  Cuckoo's  Silence 

chulain  in  the  west — for  the  famous  hero  of 
the  Gaels  is,  for  all  the  bardic  legends  as  to 
Setanta  being  Cu-chulain,  the  hound  of  Cu- 
lain,  as  unmistakably  a  cuckoo-god  as  his 
Finnish  or  Esthonian  namesake,  Kukkolind. 
The  base  of  all  is  the  divine  inspiration,  the 
mysterious  wandering  Breath,  the  incalcul- 
able Word,  "  the  heroic  cuckoo,"  who  awak- 
ens the  green  world,  the  world  of  blossom 
and  leaf  and  the  songs  of  birds  and  the  sap 
in  the  trees  and  the  mounting  warmth  in  the 
blood,  who,  as  the  chroniclers  say,  "  rouses 
the  enchanted  maid  of  spring  from  her  long 
sleep."  Of  all  these,  whether  it  be  Faunus, 
or  Kullervo,  or  Kalevipoeg,  or  the  Son  of 
Mananan,  or  Cuchulain,  the  same  thing  may  be 
said :  they  are  bringers  of  Spring,  champions 
of  the  sun,  rhapsodes  of  the  immemorial 
ecstasy,  bacchids  of  the  ancient  intoxication. 
One  of  the  loveliest  of  these  mythopceic 
dreams  I  heard  first,  at  the  break  of  June, 
years  ago,  at  Strachur  of  Loch  Fyne,  in  a  sea- 
son of  cloudless  blue  by  day  and  mellow  am- 
ber by  night,  and  when  in  the  long-delaying 
dusk  the  voices  of  many  cuckoos  floated 
across  the  narrow  loch  from  the  shadowy 
woods  of  Claondiri.  It  was  of  Manan,  the 
son  of  that  ancient  Manan  the  Gaelic  Posei- 
don ;  and  how  he  went  to  the  north  to  woo 

243 


The  Cuckoo's  Silence 

his  beautiful  sister,  and  strew  her  way  with 
the  petals  of  wild-rose,  and  fill  her  ears  with 
the  songs  of  birds,  and  the  sighing  of  waters, 
and  the  longing  of  the  wind  of  the  west. 
But  that  I  have  told,  and  am  more  fully 
telling,  elsewhere.  Two  summers  ago,  on  the 
Sound  of  Morven,  I  was  told  a  fragmentary 
legend  of  Conlay  (Connleach),  the  son  of 
Cuchulain,  when  a  youth  in  Skye,  and  how 
he  went  to  Ireland  and,  all  unwitting,  fought 
to  the  death  with  his  father — as  in  the  Greek 
tale  of  Oidipous,  as  in  the  Persian  tale  of 
Sohrab :  and,  unknowing  relevancy  or  keeping 
to  the  ancestral  word,  the  teller  emphasised 
this  old  myth-tale  of  the  cuckoo  that  knows 
not  and  is  not  known  by  its  own  offspring,  by 
adding :  "  Aye,  it  was  a  meeting  of  cuckoos, 
that :  father  and  son,  the  one  not  knowing  the 
other  any  more  than  a  cuckoo  on  the  wind 
knows  father  or  mother,  brother  or  sister." 

Of  all  the  cuckoo-tales  there  is  none  love- 
lier than  that  told  of  our  Gaelic  hero  in  "  The 
Wooing  of  Blathmaid."  This  sleeping  queen 
or  lost  princess,  whose  name  signifies  "  Blos- 
som," lives  on  a  remote  island.  With  the 
Gaelic  teller  this  island  will  be  the  Isle  of 
Man,  home  of  Mananan,  that  ancient  god 
whose  cold  hands  grope  blindly  along  the 
shores  of  the  world :  with  the  Swede  or  Finn 
244 


The  Cuckoo's  Silence 

or  Esth  it  will  be  that  other  city  set  among 
cold  forgotten  waters,  that  other  Mana.  Cu- 
chulain  loves  Blathmaid,  and  their  wooing  is 
so  sweet  that  fragrance  comes  into  flowers, 
and  birds  break  into  song.  The  voice  of  Cu- 
chulain  is  the  music  of  the  world.  Blathmaid 
hears  it,  awakes,  moves  to  it  in  wondering 
joy.  But  a  rival  lord,  Curoi  the  king,  carries 
Blathmaid  away.  Cuchulain  is  left  bound, 
and  shorn  of  his  long  yellow  hair.  But  he 
regains  his  strength  and  freedom,  and  follows 
Blathmaid.  Her  sign  to  him  from  the  Dun 
where  she  is  kept  a  prisoner  is  milk  poured 
into  the  water  that  makes  a  gulf  between  the 
fortress  and  the  leaning  banks.  In  the  end, 
Curoi  is  slain  or  driven  away;  Blathmaid 
hears  the  call  of  Cuchulain,  and  wanders  into 
the  beautiful  green  world  with  her  lover. 
Here,  every  touch  is  symbolical.  Cuchulain 
is  the  breath  of  returning  life,  Spring,  sym- 
bolised in  the  Cuckoo,  that  "  child  of  air  "  as 
the  old  northland  poet  calls  his  dream.  Blath- 
maid is  the  awakening  world :  Blossom.  Cu- 
roi is  the  wind  of  autumn,  the  fierce  and  silent 
magician  Winter.  The  milk  is  but  the  em- 
blem of  melting  streams,  of  the  fluent  sap. 

But  now,  as  I  write,  already  midsummer  is 
gone.  The  cuckoo  is  silent.  The  country- 
folk still  think  it  is  become  a  hawk.  The  old 

245 


The  Cuckoo's  Silence 

Cymric  Gwalchmei  (the  cuckoo-son  of  Arthur 
and  twin  brother  of  Modred)  is,  Professor 
Rhys  tells  us,  but  an  analogue  of  the  Hawk 
of  May.  So,  once  more,  we  see  the  incalcul- 
able survival  of  tradition.  Some  say  that  the 
wandering  clan  has  dispersed  on  the  four 
winds.  The  sweet  mysterious  voice  will  be 
heard  no  more  in  the  world  till  the  wind  of 
the  south  crosses  the  sea  next  far-off  Spring, 
and  the  sound  of  the  wings  of  swallows  is 
come  again.  But  "  the  bird  of  the  sevens  "  is 
not  yet  gone.  Seven  weeks  from  the  coming 
of  the  Voice  to  the  hunger  of  the  fledgeling 
seventeen  weeks,  and  the  fledgeling  has  left 
foster-parents  and  gone  out  upon  the  wind ; 
seven  and  twenty  weeks,  and  the  bird  fades 
away  from  the  woodlands  like  mist. 

It  is  gone :  Midsummer,  the  songs  of  birds, 
the  "  wandering  Voice."  Already,  with  that 
old  insatiate  passion  of  the  soul,  we  long  for 
Blathmaid,  so  soon  taken  from  us :  long  for  that 
divine  call  to  youth  and  love :  long  for  Spring 
that  shall  come  again,  though  it  shall  be  but  a 
sweet  wandering  voice,  the  call  of  the  un- 
known, the  promise  of  the  unfulfilled.  For 
we  thirst  for  that  invisible  mystery  whose 
voice  floats  above  the  veils  of  the  world,  and 
we  would  drink  again  of  the  old  wonder  and 
the  old  illusion. 

246 


THE   COMING   OF   DUSK 

At  all  seasons  the  coming  of  dusk  has  its 
spell  upon  the  imagination.  Even  in  cities  it 
puts  something  of  silence  into  the  turmoil, 
something  of  mystery  into  the  commonplace 
aspect  of  the  familiar  and  the  day-worn.  The 
shadow  of  the  great  change  that  accompanies 
the  passage  of  day  is  as  furtive  and  mysteri- 
ous, as  swift  and  inevitable,  amid  the  traffic 
of  streets  as  in  aisles  of  the  forest,  or  in  glens 
and  on  hills,  on  shores,  or  on  the  sea.  It  is 
everywhere  the  hour  of  suspense.  Day  has 
not  receded  into  the  confused  past,  already  a 
shadow  in  eternity,  and  night  has  not  yet 
come  out  of  the  unknown.  Instinctively  one 
feels  as  though  crossing  an  invisible  bridge 
over  a  gulf,  perchance  with  troubled  glances 
at  the  already  dimming  shore  behind,  or  with 
dreaming  eyes  or  watchful  or  expectant  gaze 
on  the  veiled  shore  upon  which  we  are  almost 
come.  In  winter  one  can  see  dusk  advancing 
like  a  mountain-shadow.  In  lonely  places 
there  is  something  ominous,  menacing  in  the 
swift  approach  of  the  early  winter-dusk,  fur- 
247 


The  Coming  of  Dusk 

ther  gloomed  perhaps  by  the  oncome  of  snow 
or  rain  or  of  a  soughing  wind  moving  out  of 
low  congregated  cloud.  In  thronged  streets  it 
is  not  less  swift,  not  less  sombre,  but  the  fall- 
ing veils  have  hardly  been  secretly  unloosened 
before  they  are  punctuated  by  the  white  or 
yellow  flare  of  the  street-lamps.  Hardly  is 
breathing-space,  there,  between  the  stepping 
out  of  day  and  the  stepping  into  night.  The 
fear  of  darkness,  which  possesses  towns  like 
a  great  dread,  has  broken  the  spell  with  ten 
thousand  lights :  as  the  mind  of  man,  which 
likewise  dreads  the  naked  darkness  of  thought 
and  the  white,  remote,  passionless  stars  of 
the  spirit,  hastens  to  hide  its  shadowy  dusks 
and  brooding  nights  with  a  myriad  frail  paper 
lanterns  that  a  flying  hand  of  rain  will  ex- 
tinguish or  a  breath  of  wind  carry  in  a  mo- 
ment to  the  outer  darkness. 

But  whatever  hold  upon  the  imagination 
the  winter-dusk  may  have,  however  subtle  a 
spell  there  may  be  in  the  gloamings  of  au- 
tumn, surely  the  coming  of  dusk  has  at  no 
other  time  the  enchantment  of  the  long  mid- 
summer eves.  It  is  then  that  one  feels  to  the 
utmost  the  magic  influences  of  the  dimsea  or 
dimsee,  to  use  the  beautiful  old  English  west- 
country  word.  The  further  north  one  is  the 
longer  the  suspense,  the  more  magical  the 
248 


The  Coming  of  Dusk 

slow  gradual  recession  of  the  day-glow  from 
vast  luminous  skies,  the  slow  swimming 
into  the  earthward  gloaming  of  incalculable 
shadow.  What  a  difference  between  the 
lands  of  the  south  and  the  light-lingering 
countries  of  the  north!  The  sudden  night 
comes  to  the  shores  of  Mediterranean  while 
the  rose  of  the  west  yet  flames  against  the 
Cornish  headlands;  the  Sicilian  wave  is  dark 
while  the  long  green  billow,  washing  over 
Lyonesse,  is  still  a  wandering  fire  under 
cloudy  banks  of  amethyst.  And,  in  turn, 
shadow  has  come  out  of  the  sea  upon  Wales 
and  fallen  upon  the  upland  watercourses  from 
the  norland  fells  while,  in  the  Gaelic  isles, 
purple  and  gold  cloths  are  still  piled  deep 
upon  the  fiery  threshold  of  the  sunset:  and 
when  the  last  isles  themselves  are  like 
velvet-dark  barques  afloat  in  a  universe  of  opal 
and  pale  yellow  and  faint  crimson,  a  radiant 
sun  still  blooms  like  a  flower  of  fire  among  the 
white  pinnacles  of  wandering  berg  and  the 
everlasting  walls  of  ice. 

In  June  the  coming  of  dusk  is  the  audible 
movement  of  summer.  The  day  is  so  full  of 
myriad  beauty,  so  full  of  sound  and  fragrance, 
that  it  is  not  till  the  hour  of  the  dew  that  one 
may  hear  the  breathing  of  the  miraculous 
presence.  The  birds,  who  still  sing  early  in 
249 


The  Coming  of  Dusk 

the  month,  and  many  even  of  those  whose 
songs  follow  the  feet  of  May,  begin  a  new 
love-life  at  the  coming  of  June,  are  silent: 
though  sometimes,  in  the  south,  the  nightin- 
gale will  still  suddenly  put  the  pulse  of  song 
into  the  gloaming,  though  brieflier  now ;  and 
elsewhere  the  night-loving  thrush  will  awake, 
and  call  his  long  liquid  notes  above  the  wild- 
growth  of  honeysuckle  and  brier.  At  the 
rising  of  the  moon  I  have  heard  the  cuckoos 
calling  well  after  the  date  when  they  are 
supposed  to  be  silent,  and  near  midnight 
have  known  the  blackcap  fill  a  woodland  hol- 
low in  Argyll  with  a  music  as  solitary,  as  in- 
toxicating, as  that  of  a  nightingale  in  a  Sur- 
rey dell. 

The  thrash,  the  blackbird,  the  blackcap,  the 
willow-warbler  and  other  birds  may  often  be 
heard  singing  in  the  dusk,  or  on  moonlit 
nights,  in  a  warm  May:  and  doubtless  it  is 
for  this  reason  that  many  people  declare  they 
have  heard  the  nightingale  even  in  regions 
where  that  bird  never  penetrates.  Often,  too, 
the  nightingale's  song  is  attributed  to  the  black- 
cap, and  even  to  the  thrush  or  merle,  simply 
because  heard  by  day ;  for  there  seems  to  be  a 
common  idea  that  this  bird  will  not  sing  save 
at  dusk  or  in  darkness  or  in  the  morning  twi- 
light. I  doubt  if  the  nightingale  ever  sings  in 
250 


The  Coming  of  Dusk 

actual  darkness,  and  though  the  bird  is  most 
eager  just  before  and  at  dawn,  at  moonlit  or 
starlit  dusk,  or  at  full  moon,  it  may  be  heard 
at  any  hour  of  the  day.  I  have  heard  the  song 
and  watched  the  singer  at  full  moon,  and  that 
not  in  deep  woods  but  in  a  copse  by  the  way- 
side. Strange  that  both  name  and  legend  sur- 
vive in  lands  where  the  nightingale  is  now 
unseen.  There  is  no  question  but  that  it  was 
once  plentiful,  or  at  any  rate  often  seen,  in 
the  Western  Highlands;  though  now,  it  is 
said,  not  a  bird  of  its  tribe  has  crossed  the 
Solway  since  the  Union !  It  is  still  spoken  of 
in  Argyll  and  elsewhere,  and  not  confusedly 
with  any  other  woodlander.  In  no  country 
has  it  a  lovelier  name  than  the  Gaelic  Ros-an- 
Ceol,  the  Rose  of  Music.  I  have  heard  it 
spoken  of  as  the  smiol  or  smiolach,  the  eosag, 
and  the  spideag,  though  this  latter  name,  per- 
haps the  commonest,  is  misleading,  as  it  is 
applied  to  one  or  two  other  songsters. 

In  lona,  Colonsay,  Tiree,  and  other  isles,  I 
have  heard  the  robin  alluded  to  as  the  spideag. 
I  remember  the  drift,  but  cannot  recall  the 
text  of  a  Gaelic  poem  where  the  nightingale 
( for  neither  in  literary  nor  legendary  language 
is  any  other  bird  indicated  by  "  Ros-an-Ceol  ") 
is  called  the  Sister  of  Sorrow,  with  an  allu- 
sion to  a  singular  legend,  which  in  some  va- 

251 


The  Coming  of  Dusk 

riant  or  another  I  believe  is  also  found  in  the 
Austrian  highlands,  parts  of  Germany,  and 
elsewhere,  to  the  effect  that  if  a  nightingale 
come  "  with  Song  upon  it "  into  the  room  of 
a  sleeping  person,  that  person  will  go  mad,  or 
that  if  the  eyes  of  a  nightingale  found  dead  or 
slain  be  dissolved  in  any  liquid,  the  drinker 
will  become  blind.  I  have  heard,  too,  a  tale 
(though  the  bird  was  there  alluded  to  as  the 
smeorachoidhche  or  "night-thrush")  where 
the  nightingale,  the  owl,  and  the  bat  are  called 
moon-children,  the  Moon-Clan ;  three  birds, 
it  is  said,  with  three  animals  of  the  land  and 
three  of  the  water,  three  fish,  three  insects, 
three  trees,  three  plants,  three  flowers,  and 
three  stones  were  thrown  to  the  earth  as  a 
farewell  gift  the  day  the  Moon  died.  Among 
the  three  birds  the  teller  included  the  bat,  and 
I  daresay  there  are  many  who  still  regard 
the  bat  as  a  bird.  The  three  animals  of  land 
and  water  were  the  weasel,  the  badger,  and 
the  fox,  the  seal,  the  otter,  and  the  kelpie 
(sic).  The  three  fish  were  the  fluke,  the  eel, 
and  the  moon-glistered  herring.  The  three 
insects  were  the  white  moth,  the  grey  gnat, 
and  the  cockchafer.  The  three  trees  were  the 
ash,  the  thorn,  and  the  elder.  The  three  plants 
were  the  ivy,  the  moon-fern  or  bracken,  and 
the  mistletoe.  The  three  flowers  were  the 
252 


The  Coming  of  Dusk 

meadowsweet,  the  white  water-lily  and  the 
"  lusavone "  ( ? Lus-Mhonaidh  .  .  .?  Bog-cot- 
ton). The  three  stones  were,  I  think,  granite, 
basalt,  and  trap,  though  I  am  uncertain  about 
the  second  and  still  more  so  about  the  third, 
which  was  called  clach-liath,  "  the  grey  stone." 

But  though  in  the  north  the  nightingale  is 
no  longer  a  haunter  of  the  dusk,  the  other 
clans  of  the  night  are  to  be  met  with  every- 
where, "  from  the  Rhinns  of  Islay  to  the  Ord 
of  Sutherland  "  as  the  Highland  saying  goes 
in  place  of  the  wider  "  from  Land's  End  to 
John  o'  Groats."  First  and  foremost  is  the 
owl.  But  of  the  owl  and  the  nightjar  and 
the  midsummer  night  I  wish  to  speak  in  a 
succeeding  paper.  The  corncrake  will  next 
occur  to  mind. 

The  cry  of  the  landrail  is  so  like  its  pop- 
ular name  that  one  cannot  mistake  it.  Some 
naturalists  say  the  resemblance  to  the  croak- 
ing of  the  frog  may  mislead  the  unwary,  but 
there  is  an  altogether  different  musical  beat 
or  emphasis  in  the  call  of  the  rail  a  different 
quality  of  sound,  a  different  energy;  and  it 
is  difficult  to  understand  how  any  ear  fa- 
miliar with  nocturnal  sounds  could  err  in 
detecting  the  monotonously  uniform  krex- 
krex  of  the  bull-frog  from  the  large,  air-swim- 
ming, harshly  musical  crek-crake,  with  the 

253 


The  Coming  of  Dusk 

singular  suspense  so  often  to  be  noted  after 
the  first  syllable.  For  all  its  harshness  there 
are  few  sounds  of  the  summer-dusk  so  wel- 
come. It  speaks  of  heat:  of  long  shadow- 
weaving  afternoons :  of  labour  ceased,  of  love 
begun,  of  dreams  within  dreams.  The  very 
memory  of  it  fills  the  mind  as  with  silent 
garths  of  hay,  with  pastures  ruddy  with 
sorrel,  lit  by  the  last  flusht  glow  or  by  the 
yellow  gold  of  the  moon,  paling  as  it  rises. 
The  white  moth  is  out ;  the  dew  is  on  the 
grass,  the  orchis,  the  ghostly  clover ;  the  flit- 
termouse  is  here,  is  yonder,  is  here  again ;  a 
late  mallard  flies  like  a  whirring  bolt  over- 
head, or  a  homing  cushat  cleaves  the  air- 
waves as  with  rapid  oars.  As  a  phantom,  a 
white  owl  drifts  past  and  greys  into  the  dusk, 
like  flying  foam  into  gathering  mist.  In  the 
dew-moist  air  an  innumerable  rumour  be- 
comes a  monotone :  the  breath  of  life,  sup- 
pressed, husht,  or  palpitant.  A  wilderness  of 
wild-roses  has  been  crushed,  and  their  fra- 
grance diffused  among  the  dove-grey  and  hare- 
bell blue  and  pansy-purple  veils  of  twilight: 
or  is  it  a  wilderness  of  honeysuckle;  or  of 
meadowsweet ;  or  of  the  dew-wet  hay ;  or 
lime-blossom  and  brier,  galingale  and  the 
tufted  reed  and  the  multitude  of  the  fern  ?  It 
is  fragrance,  ineffable,  indescribable :  odour 

254 


The  Coming  of  Dusk 

born  under  the  pale  fire  of  the  moon,  under 
the  lance-thrusting  whiteness  of  the  Evening 
Star. 

But  before  rain  the  persistent  cry  of  the 
corncrake  becomes  loud,  raucous,  with  a  rasp- 
ing intensity.  The  bird  is  commonly  said  to 
be  a  ventriloquist,  but  this  I  greatly  doubt. 
I  have  watched  the  rail  in  many  places,  often 
within  a  few  yards,  more  than  once  from  the 
flat  summit  of  a  huge  boulder  set  in  the  heart 
of  a  hillmeadow  of  grass  and  sorrel.  Not 
once  have  I  heard  "  the  King  of  the  quails  " 
unmistakably  throw  his  voice  a  few  score  of 
yards  away.  Often  a  crck-crakc  has  re- 
sounded, and  at  some  distance  away,  just  as  I 
have  seen  the  stooping  body  of  the  dream 
(or  traon  or  treun-ri-treun)  slide  through  the 
grassy  tangle  almost  at  my  feet :  but  the  cry 
was  not  identical  with  that  which  a  moment 
before  I  had  heard,  and  surely  it  was  not  only 
distance  but  the  difference  of  sex  and  the 
pulse  of  love  which  softened  it  to  a  musical 
call.  Once,  however,  watching  unseen  from 
the  boulder  I  have  spoken  of,  I  saw  and 
heard  a  landrail  utter  its  crake  in  three  ways, 
first  and  for  over  a  minute  with  its  head  to 
one  side  while  it  moved  jerkingly  this  way 
and  that,  then  for  a  few  seconds  (perhaps  four 
or  five  times)  with  its  head  apparently  thrown 

255 


The  Coming  of  Dusk 

back,  and  then  after  a  minute  or  two's  silence 
and  after  a  brief  rapid  run  forward  with  out- 
thrust  neck  and  lowered  head,  as  though  call- 
ing along  the  ground.  In  no  instance  was 
the  call  thrown  as  though  from  a  distance,  but 
unmistakably  from  where  the  bird  moved  or 
crouched.  There  had  been  no  response  to 
the  first,  a  single  echo-like  crek-crake  followed 
the  second,  but  to  the  third  there  came  al- 
most simultaneously  calls  from  at  least  three 
separate  regions. 

Nor  is  the  rail  so  invariably  shy,  so  heedful 
of  cover,  as  commonly  averred.  With  silence 
and  patience  it  may  often  be  discerned  before 
the  seeding  grass  is  too  dense  or  the  corn 
high.  In  a  lonely  place  on  the  east  shore  of 
West  Loch  Tarbert  in  Cantire  I  have  seen 
several  corncrakes  leave  cover  as  fearlessly 
as  those  two  other  "  sacred  "  or  "  blessed  " 
birds,  the  lark  and  the  red  grouse,  will  leave 
the  shelter  of  heather-clutch  or  grassy  tus- 
sock :  and  one  morning  I  was  awaked  at  dawn 
by  so  near  and  insistent  an  iterance  of  the 
singular  call  that  I  rose  and  looked  out,  to 
discover  three  corncrakes  awkwardly  perched 
on  a  low  rabbit-fence,  while  I  counted  four 
others  running  to  and  fro  in  the  rough  dew- 
glistered  grass  just  beyond.  Here,  by  the 
way,  a  crofter  spoke  of  the  landrail  as  the 
256 


The  Coming  of  Dusk 

cearrsach,  a  name  I  have  not  elsewhere  heard 
and  am  not  sure  of  the  meaning,  unless  it  is 
"  the  lumpy  "  or  "  awkward  one  " ;  while  an 
English  factor  knew  it  as  the  grass-drake  or 
meadow-drake,  and  again  as  the  night-crow 
— the  latter  obviously  a  survival  from  the 
Anglo-Saxon  "  myghte-crake  "  or  a  name  re- 
given  from  like  association  of  ideas.  The 
same  shrewd  farmer  quite  believed  that  a 
corncrake  is  governor  and  leader  of  each 
flock  of  quails,  at  any  rate  in  the  season  of 
migration — an  idea  held  by  the  Greeks  of  old 
and  retained  by  the  Greek  and  Sicilian  quail- 
shooters  of  to-day,  and  obviously  wide- 
spread, as  the  Germans  call  the  landrail  the 
quail-king  (Wachtelkonig},  the  French  " le  roi 
des  c ailles,"  the  Italians  "  il  re  di  quaglie,"  and 
the  Spaniards  "  el  rey  de  las  cordonices." 
However,  if  he  had  been  a  Gael  he  could  have 
spoken  of  the  quail  only  by  hearsay  most 
likely,  for  it  is  very  rare  in  the  Highlands, 
and  for  myself  I  have  never  seen  one  there. 
Its  name  (garra-gart  or  gartari)  is  not  unique ; 
and  the  common  term  mnir-eun  is  solely  bib- 
lical, "  sea-bird  "  or  "  bird-from-oversea,"  be- 
cause of  the  allusion  in  Numbers  xii.  31. 

But  the  dew  is  heavy  on  the  grass:  the 
corncrake  calls:  on  a  cloudy  juniper  the 
nightjar  churrs:  the  fhionna  or  white  moth 

257 


The  Coming  of  Dusk 

wavers  above  the  tall  spires  of  the  foxglove. 
The  midsummer  eve  is  now  a  grey-violet 
dusk.  At  the  rising  of  the  moon  a  sigh 
conies  from  the  earth.  Down  the  moist  vel- 
vety ledges  of  the  dark  a  few  far-apart  and 
low-set  stars  pulsate  as  though  about  to  fall, 
but  continuously  regather  their  tremulous 
white  rays.  The  night  of  summer  is  come. 


258 


AT  THE  RISING  OF  THE  MOON 

"  The  dew  is  heavy  on  the  grass :  the  corn- 
crake calls:  on  a  cloudy  juniper  the  nightjar 
churrs :  the  fhionna  or  white  moth  wavers 
above  the  tall  spires  of  the  foxglove.  The 
midsummer  eve  is  now  a  grey-violet  dusk. 
At  the  rising  of  the  moon  a  sigh  comes  from 
the  earth.  Down  the  moist  velvety  ledges  of 
the  dark  a  few  far-apart  and  low-set  stars 
pulsate  as  though  about  to  fall,  but  continu- 
ously regather  their  tremulous  white  rays. 
The  night  of  summer  is  come." 

With  these  words  I  ended  my  preceding 
essay,  "  The  Coming  of  Dusk."  There  was 
not  space  there  to  speak  of  other,  of  so  many 
of  those  nocturnal  things  which  add  so  much 
to  the  mystery  and  spell  of  the  short  nights  of 
summer:  the  arrowy  throw  of  the  bat,  a 
shadowy  javelin  flung  by  a  shadowy  hand 
against  a  shadowy  foe;  the  nightjar,  the 
dusky  clans  of  the  owl,  moonrise  at  sea  or 
among  pinewoods,  the  dance  of  the  moths 
round  certain  trees,  the  faint  woven  cadence 
of  the  wheeling  gnat-columns,  the  sudden 

259 


At  the  Rising  of  the  Moon 

scream  of  the  heron  or  the  wailing  of  seafowl, 
or  the  mournful  noise  of  the  moon-restless 
lapwing,  wind  in  the  grass,  wind  in  the  hol- 
lows of  woods,  wind  among  the  high  corries 
of  the  hills.  These  and  a  hundred  other 
sounds  and  sights  fill  the  summer-darkness : 
the  hill-fox  barking  at  the  moonshine,  the 
heather-cock  in  defiance  of  alarm,  deer  pant- 
ing among  the  bracken,  the  splash  of  herring 
or  mackerel  on  the  moonlit  breast  of  the  bay, 
dogs  baying  a  long  way  off  and  from  farm- 
stead to  farmstead.  One  could  not  speak  of 
all  these  things,  or  of  the  hundred  more.  In 
the  meadows,  in  woods,  on  upland  pastures, 
from  beech-thicket  to  pine-forest,  on  the 
moors,  on  the  hills,  in  the  long  valleys  and 
the  narrow  glens,  among  the  dunes  and  sea- 
banks  and  along  wave-loud  or  wave-whisper- 
ing shores,  everywhere  the  midsummer-night 
is  filled  with  sound,  with  fragrance,  with  a 
myriad  motion.  It  is  an  exquisite  unrest:  a 
prolonged  suspense,  to  the  dayworn  as  silence 
is,  yet  is  not  silence,  though  the  illusion  is 
wrought  out  of  the  multitudinous  silences 
which  incalculably  intersperse  the  continuous 
chant  of  death,  the  ceaseless  hymn  of  life. 

Everywhere,  but  far  north  in  particular,  the 
summer  night  has  a  loveliness  to  which  the 
least    sensitive   must    in    some    degree    yield, 
260 


At  the  Rising  of  the  Moon 

creates  a  spell  which  must  trouble  even  a 
dulled  imagination,  as  moonlight  and  the 
faintest  rippling  breath  will  trouble  un- 
quickened  pools  into  a  sudden  beauty.  It  is 
a  matter  of  temperament,  of  mood  and  cir- 
cumstance rather,  where  one  would  find 
oneself,  at  the  rising  of  the  moon,  in  the  pro- 
longed twilights  of  summer.  To  be  in  a 
pinewood  shelving  to  a  calm  sea  breaking  in 
continuous  foam:  or  among  mountain  soli- 
tudes, where  all  is  a  velvety  twilight  deepen- 
ing to  a  green  darkness,  till  the  sudden  moon 
rests  athwart  one  hill-shoulder  like  a  bronze 
shield,  and  then  slowly  is  lifted  and  dissolves 
into  an  amber  glow  along  all  the  heights :  or 
on  great  moors,  where  one  can  see  for  leagues 
upon  leagues,  and  hear  nothing  but  the  rest- 
less crying  of  the  curlew,  the  screech  of  a 
heron,  the  abrupt  unknown  cries  and  fugitive 
sounds  and  momentary  stealthy  rustlings  of 
nocturnal  solitudes.  Or,  again,  on  a  white 
roadway  passing  through  beech-woods:  or  on 
a  gorse-set  common,  with  the  churring  of  a 
nightjar  filling  the  dusk  with  the  unknown 
surge  and  beat  in  one's  own  heart:  or  on  the 
skirts  of  thatched  hamlets,  where  a  few  lights 
linger,  with  perhaps  the  loud  breathing  and 
trampling  of  cattle:  or  in  a  cottage-garden, 
with  mignonette  and  cabbage-roses  and  ghost- 
261 


At  the  Rising  of  the  Moon 

ly  phlox,  or  dew-fragrant  with  musk  and 
southernwood:  or  in  an  old  manor-garden, 
with  white  array  of  lilies  that  seem  to  have 
drunk  moonlight,  and  damask  and  tea-rose  in 
odorous  profusion,  with  the  honey-loving 
moths  circling  from  moss-rose  to  moss-rose, 
and  the  night-air  delaying  among  tall  thickets 
of  sweet-pea.  Or,  it  may  be,  on  quiet  sea- 
waters,  along  phantom  cliffs,  or  under  mossed 
and  brackened  rocky  wastes :  or  on  a  river, 
under  sweeping  boughs  of  alder  and  willow, 
the  great  ash,  the  shadowy  beech.  But  each 
can  dream  for  himself.  Memory  and  the 
imagination  will  create  dream-pictures  with- 
out end. 

Of  all  these  midsummer-night  creatures 
alluded  to  here  or  in  the  preceding  essay 
there  may  be  none  more  allied  to  poetic  asso- 
ciation than  the  nightjar,  but  surely  there  is 
none  more  interesting  than  the  owl  itself,  that 
true  bird  of  the  darkness.  That  phantom- 
flight,  that  silent  passage  as  from  the  unseen 
to  the  unseen,  that  singular  cry,  whether  a 
boding  scream  or  a  long  melancholy  hoot  or 
a  prolonged  too-whoo,  how  blent  they  are 
with  one's  associations  of  the  warm  husht 
nights  of  summer.  But  is  not  the  nightjar 
also  of  the  same  tribe?  Fern-owl  is  a  com- 
mon name;  also  jar-owl,  heather-owl.  I  have 
262 


At  the  Rising  of  the  Moon 

heard  it  called  the  heather-bleat,  though  prob- 
ably that  name  commonly  indicates  the  snipe. 
How  well  I  remember  from  childhood  that 
puzzling  riddle 

"The  bat,  the  bee,  the  butterflee,  the  cuckoo  and  the 

gowk, 

The  heather-bleat,  the  mire-snipe;  how  many  birds 
is  that?" 

I  was  never  "  taken-in  "  by  the  first  three,  but 
as  I  had  been  told  or  had  somehow  discovered 
that  the  cuckoo  was  often  companioned  by  the 
meadow-pipit  I  thought  the  latter  must  be 
the  "  gowk."  So  I  guessed  "  four,"  taking  the 
heather-bleat  to  be  the  nightjar:  and  it  was 
long  before  I  discovered  that  the  answer  was 
two,  for  only  the  cuckoo  and  the  snipe  were 
really  named. 

I  wonder  how  many  names  the  Owl  has! 
Those  alone  which,  like  the  archetypal  name, 
derive  from  the  old  root-word  ul  (to  howl  or 
hoot  or  screech),  must  run  to  some  thirty  to 
forty  at  least,  from  the  Anglo-Saxon  "  hule  " 
and  later  "  ullet  "  to  the  familiar  "  hoolet  "  or 
"  hoolit  "  or  "  howlet,"  or,  again,  the  still  cur- 
rent south  English  "  ullud,"  "  ullot,"  or  "  ull- 
yet."  We  have  many  Gaelic  names  also,  as 
(for  the  snowy  or  barn  owl)  "  cailleach-bhan," 
the  white  auld  wife,  or  "  cailleach-oidhche,"  the 
263 


At  the  Rising  of  the  Moon 

night- witch;  or  (for  the  tawny  owl)  "  bodach- 
oidhche,"  the  night-bogle ;  or  ( for  the  screech- 
owl)  the  onomatopoeic  "  corra-sgriachaig,"  or 
several  terms  meaning  "  long-eared "  or 
"  horned  " ;  and  three  or  four  designations, 
either  onomatopoeic,  as  perhaps  "  ulacan " 
(though  both  in  sound  and  meaning  it  is  the 
same  as  the  southland  "  hooligan  "),  or  adap- 
tations of  the  Teutonic  root-word,  as  "  Olca- 
dan  "  or  "  ullaid."  The  name  "  yogle  "  may  be 
heard  along  the  Lothian,  Yorkshire,  and  East 
Anglian  coast-lands,  and  is  doubtless  a  "  lift " 
from  the  Danish  "  Katyugle  "  or  "  Katogle  " : 
indeed  "  catyogle,"  "  catogle,"  and  "  catyool  " 
(with  the  quaint  by-throw  "  cherubim  ")  oc- 
cur in  several  parts  of  England.  In  Clydes- 
dale I  have  often  heard  the  horned  owl  called 
the  "  luggie  "  (long-ears).  Some  names  with 
probably  only  local  meaning  I  do  not  under- 
stand, as  for  example,  the  "  Wite  "  (not  the 
adjective,  but  possibly  the  old  word  for 
churchyard  and  even  church)  ;  the  "  padge  " 
or  "  pudge  "  of  Leicestershire ;  the  Jack-baker, 
billy-wix,  and  the  eastland  "  will-a-wix."  (Is 
this  the  cry  of  the  young  owl  awaiting  food?) 
The  "  jilly,"  which  I  heard  once  at  or  near 
Windermere,  is  probably  a  corruption  of  the 
Gaelic  "  gheal  "  (white),  as  many  north-Celtic 
names  survive  in  that  region.  Our  common- 
264 


At  the  Rising  of  the  Moon 

est  name  in  the  Highlands  is  "  comhachag  " 
(co-ach-ak)  probably  as  onomatopoeic  a  term 
as  "  cuach  "  or  "cuthag"  (coo-ak)  for  the 
cuckoo,  or  "  fitheach  "  (fee-ak]  for  the  raven. 
It  is  said  that  the  longest  poem  on  the  Owl 
in  any  language  is  in  Gaelic.  The  Oran  na 
Comhachaig  or  Song  of  the  Owl  was  com- 
posed by  an  aged  Highland  bard  named  Don- 
ald Finlay  somewhere  about  three  hundred 
years  ago — about  1590  says  one  local  account, 
though  I  do  not  know  on  what  authority:  a 
rinn  Domhnull  Mac  Fhionnlaidh  nan  Dan, 
sealgair  'us  bard  ainmeil  Abrach,  mu  thiom- 
chioll  1590  (done  by  Donald  Finlay  of  the 
Songs,  the  celebrated  Lochaber  huntsman  and 
poet,  in  or  about  1590).  I  have  again  and 
again  heard  the  second  of  its  sixty-seven — 
in  another  version  seventy — quatrains  quoted 
in  support  of  the  theory  that  an  owl  lives  at 
least  a  hundred  years ;  some  are  credited  with 
far  greater  age: 

"'S  co-aoise  mise  do'n  daraig, 
Bha  na  fhaillain  ann  sa  choinnich, 
'S  ioma  linn  a  chuir  mi  romham, 
'S  gur  mi  comhachag  bhochd  na  sroine." 

(I  am  old  as  the  oak  .  .  .  lit.  "  the  ancient- 
ness  upon  me  is  that  of  the  oak  "...  whose 
mossy  roots  spread  wide :  many  a  race  have 
265 


At  the  Rising  of  the  Moon 

I  seen  come  and  go:  and  still  I  am  the  lonely 
owl  of  Srona.) 

In  every  country  the  owl  is  a  bird  of 
mourning.  It  is  also  the  bird  of  night  pre- 
eminently (what  a  pity  the  old-English  owl- 
light  as  a  variant  for  twilight  has  become 
obsolete)  ;  the  bird  of  moonlight  or  the  Moon; 
the  bird  of  Silence,  of  Ruin,  of  the  Grave, 
of  Death.  In  some  places  a  dead  owl  is  still 
transfixed  to  the  outside  of  a  door,  to  avert 
lightning.  Perhaps  it  is  for  the  same  reason 
that  a  caged  owl  is  held  to  be  a  dangerous 
co-inmate  of  a  house  during  a  thunderstorm. 
A  thousand  legends  have  woven  this  sombre 
raiment  of  associations,  though  the  owl's  only 
distinction  from  other  birds  of  prey  is  that  it 
can  see  in  the  dark  and  is  nocturnal  in  habit. 
It  loves  solitary  places,  because  there  undis- 
turbed, but  is  not  all  darkness  solitary?  In 
Syria  the  peasant  calls  the  owl  "  the  mother 
of  ruins  "  which  is  poetically  apt,  as  is  the 
German,  "  the  sorrowing  mother,"  but  our 
northern  "  night-witch  "  and  the  grim  Breton 
"soul-harrier"  (surely  a  survival  of  the 
Greek  idea  of  the  owl  as  a  soul-guide)  are 
unjust  to  an  inoffensive  bird  whose  concern  is 
not  with  souls  and  graves  and  ruins  but  with 
rats  and  mice.  A  German  naturalist  has 
even,  I  remember,  written  to  prove  that  the 
266 


At  the  Rising  of  the  Moon 

owl  is  pre-eminently  a  bird  of  love,  of  single- 
hearted  devotion,  "  the  dove  of  the  night " ; 
and  there  is  a  Danish  poem  about  "  the  Silver- 
Spinner  "  weaving  a  thin  invisible  web  in  the 
dusk  wherein  to  entangle  and  bring  close  the 
hearts  of  lovers.  Old  Donald  Finlay  of  the 
Songs  must  have  had  some  such  idea  in  his 
mind  when  in  his  Song  of  the  Owl  he  makes 
the  bird  say  in  effect,  "  I  may  be  old  and  for- 
lorn, but  am  not  to  be  blamed  for  that :  neither 
of  rapine  nor  of  lies  have  I  ever  been  guilty : 
is  there  a  grave  anywhere  that  I  have  ever 
violated?  and  to  the  mate  of  my  choice  have 
I  ever  been  faithless  ?  " 

This  name  of  the  Silver-Spinner,  however, 
though  often  in  Germany,  Scandinavia,  and 
our  own  country  associated  with  the  poetic 
legend  alluded  to,  is  really  a  romantic  deriva- 
tive from  the  ancient  connection  of  the  small 
owl  with  the  Maiden  Maid  goddess  who  pre- 
sided over  spinning  as  one  of  her  foremost 
womanly  attributes.  "  The  Woman's  Bird," 
as  the  small  owl  is  sometimes  called,  deserves 
the  name,  for  in  almost  every  language  an- 
cient and  modern,  except  English  and  Fin- 
nish, its  name  is  feminine.  The  sacred  bird 
of  Athens  or  the  Lesbian  Nyctimene  is  still 
"  the  woman's  bird  "  among  the  Australian  ab- 
origines :  Sanskrit,  Greek,  Latin,  Celtic,  Ice- 
267 


At  the  Rising  of  the  Moon 

landic,  Vendish,  German,  French,  Hungarian, 
all  afford  the  same  sex-indication.  The  great 
white  owl,  however,  is  the  bird  of  heroes, 
wanderers,  the  night-foray,  war,  lightning, 
desolation,  solitude,  and  death.  It  is  said,  I 
know  not  how  demonstrated  or  traced,  that 
the  name  Ulysses  is  but  the  variant  of  the 
Etruscan  Ulixe  or  Sikulian  Oulixes,  words 
supposed  to  indicate  the  ululation  of  the  owl's 
cry  (in  Italy  I  have  heard  the  name  of  the 
sweet  and  plaintive  little  aziola  or  asiolo  de- 
rived from  the  same  source)  :  and  that  it  was 
given  to  the  Homeric  hero  because  he  was 
the  first  to  adventure  sea-voyaging  on  moon- 
lit nights,  because  he  too  was  a  night-wan- 
derer. But  unless  Ulixe  or  Oulixes  be  older 
than  the  Greek  name,  what  of  Odysseus  ?  In 
like  fashion  some  speculative  philologists  de- 
rive "  Pallas  "  from  the  Turanian  owl-name 
Polio. 

I  heard  a  singular  fragment  of  owl-folklore 
once  on  the  island  of  Arran.  The  narrator 
said  the  white  owl  had  seven  distinct  hoots, 
but  all  I  need  recall  here  is  that  the  seventh 
was  when  the  "  Reul  Fheasgair  "  ceased  to  be 
the  Evening  Star  and  became  the  "  Reul  na 
Maidne,"  the  Day-Star.  Was  this  a  memory 
of  some  myth  associating  the  owl  with  the 
otherworld  (or  darkness  or  moontide  or 
268 


At  the  Rising  of  the  Moon 

Night)  disclosed  every  eve  at  the  opening  of 
the  Gates  of  Dusk  ?  .  .  .  the  time  of  sleep  and 
dreams,  of  strange  nocturnal  life,  of  silence 
and  mystery,  between  the  soft  white  fire  of 
the  Vesper  Star,  the  star  of  Labour  as  the 
Bretons  call  it,  meaning  that  with  its  advent 
the  long  day's  labour  ceases,  and  its  cold  se- 
renity when  it  has  climbed  the  ramparts  of  the 
midsummer  night,  and,  as  Phosphoros,  the 
Day-Star,  Son  of  the  Morning,  flashes  like  a 
lance-point  against  the  milky  onflood  of  the 
dawn? 


269 


THE  GARDENS  OF  THE  SEA 

(A   MIDSUMMER   NOON'S   DREAM) 

I  recall  a  singular  legend,  where  heard, 
where  read,  I  do  not  remember,  nor  even  am 
I  sure  of  what  race  the  offspring,  of  what  land 
the  denizen.  It  was  to  the  effect  that,  in  the 
ancient  days  of  the  world,  flowers  had  voices, 
had  song  to  them  as  the  saying  is:  and  that 
there  were  kingdoms  among  these  popula- 
tions of  beauty,  and  that  in  the  course  of  ages 
(would  they  be  flower-aeons,  and  so  of  a 
measure  in  time  different  from  our  longer  or 
shorter  periods?)  satraps  revolted  against  the 
dominion  of  the  Rose,  and  tropical  princes  led 
new  hosts,  and  scarlet  forest-queens  filled  the 
jungle  and  the  savannah  with  their  chants  of 
victory.  And  the  end  was  a  conflict  so  great 
that  even  the  isles  of  the  sea  were  shaken  by 
it,  and  the  pale  green  moss  of  polar  rocks 
whispered  of  the  great  world-war  of  the  peo- 
ples of  Flowry.  At  last,  after  the  shadow- 
flitting  passage  of  an  aeon,  the  gods  were 
roused  from  their  calm,  and,  looking  down 
270 


The  Gardens  of  the  Sea 

into  the  shaken  mirror  of  the  world,  beheld 
all  their  dreams  and  visions  and  desires  no 
longer  children  of  loveliness  and  breaths  of 
song.  In  these  aeons  while  they  had  slept  in 
peace  the  Empire  of  Flowry  had  come  to  a 
dissolution:  race  fought  with  race,  tribe  with 
tribe,  clan  with  clan.  Among  all  the  nations 
there  was  a  madness  for  supremacy,  so  that 
the  weed  in  the  grass  and  the  flame-crowned 
spire  of  the  aloe  were  at  one  in  a  fierce  dis- 
content and  a  blind  lust  of  dominion.  There- 
upon the  gods  pondered  among  themselves. 
Kronos,  who  had  been  the  last  to  wake  and 
was  already  drowsy  with  old  immemorial  re- 
turning slumber,  murmured :  "  A  divine  mo- 
ment, O  ye  Brotherhood  of  Eternity,  is  a  long 
time  wherein  to  be  disturbed  by  the  mortal 
reflection  of  our  dreams  and  the  passions  and 
emotions  of  our  enchanted  hearts." 

And  as  all  the  calm-eyed  Immortals  agreed, 
Kronos  sighed  out  the  mandate  of  silence,  and 
turning  his  face  to  Eternity  was  again  among 
the  august  dreams  of  the  Everlasting  Ones. 

In  that  long  moment — for  there  in  the  other 
world  it  was  but  a  brief  leaning  on  their  el- 
bows of  the  drowsy  gods  while  the  fans  of 
Immortal  Sleep  for  a  second  stayed  the  vast 
waves  of  Peace — the  divine  messengers,  or 
were  they  the  listening  powers  and  dominions 
271 


The  Gardens  of  the  Sea 

of  the  earth,  fulfilled  destiny?  From  every 
flower-nation,  from  every  people  by  far 
waters,  from  every  tribe  in  dim  woods  and 
the  wilderness,  from  every  clan  habiting  the 
most  far  hills  beyond  the  ever-receding  pale 
blue  horizons,  song  was  taken  as  stars  are 
pluckt  away  from  the  Night  by  the  grey  fin- 
gers of  the  Dawn.  The  Rose  breathed  no 
more  a  flusht  magic  of  sound ;  the  Lily  no 
more  exhaled  a  foamwhite  cadence.  Silence 
was  come  upon  the  wild  chant  of  orchids  in 
old,  forgotten  woods;  stillness  upon  the  tink- 
ling cymbals  of  the  little  hands  of  the  dim, 
myriad,  incalculable  host  of  blossom ;  a  hush 
upon  the  songs  of  meadow-flowers;  a  spell 
upon  the  singing  of  honeysuckles  in  the  white 
dews  at  the  rising  of  the  moon.  Everywhere, 
from  all  the  green  tribes,  from  all  the  glow- 
ing nations  of  Flowry,  from  each  and  every 
of  the  wandering  folk  of  the  Reed,  the  Moss, 
and  the  Lichen,  from  all  the  Clans  of  the 
Grass,  the  added  loveliness  of  song  was  taken. 
Silence  fell  upon  one  and  all:  a  strange  and 
awful  stillness  came  upon  the  woods  and  val- 
leys. It  was  then  that  the  God  of  Youth, 
wandering  through  the  husht  world,  took  the 
last  song  of  a  single  rose  that  in  a  secret 
place  had  not  yet  heard  the  common  doom, 
and  with  his  breath  gave  it  a  body,  and  a  pulse 
272 


The  Gardens  of  the  Sea 

to  its  heart,  and  fashioned  for  it  a  feather- 
covering  made  of  down  of  the  bog-cotton  and 
the  soft  undersides  of  alder-leaf  and  olive. 
Then,  from  a  single  blade  of  grass  that  still 
whispered  in  a  twilight  hollow,  he  made  a  like 
marvel,  to  be  a  mate  to  the  first,  and  sent  out 
both  into  the  green  world,  to  carry  song  to  the 
woods  and  the  valleys,  the  hills  and  the  wil- 
dernesses, the  furthest  shores,  the  furthest 
isles.  Thus  was  the  nightingale  created,  the 
first  bird,  the  herald  of  all  the  small  clans  of 
the  bushes  that  have  kept  wild-song  in  the 
world,  and  are  our  delight. 

But  in  the  hearts  of  certain  of  the  green 
tribes  a  sullen  anger  endured.  So  the  myste- 
rious Hand  which  had  taken  song  and  ca- 
dence away  punished  these  sullen  ones.  From 
some,  fragrance  also  was  taken.  There  were 
orchid-queens  of  forest-loveliness  from  whom 
all  fragrance  suddenly  passed  like  smoke: 
there  were  white  delicate  phantoms  among 
the  grasses,  from  whom  sweet  odour  was 
lifted  as  summer  dew :  there  were  nomads  of 
the  hillways  and  gypsies  of  the  plain  to  whom 
were  given  the  rankness  of  the  waste,  the 
smell  of  things  evil,  of  corruption,  of  the 
grave.  But  to  some,  beautiful  rebels  of  the 
peoples  of  the  Reed,  the  Grass,  and  the  Fern, 
the  doom  went  out  that  henceforth  their  place 

273 


The  Gardens  of  the  Sea 

should  be  in  the  waters  .  .  .  the  running 
waters  of  streams  and  rivers,  the  quiet  waters 
of  pools  and  lakes,  the  troubled  waters  of  the 
seas  along  the  coasts  of  the  world,  the  ocean 
depths. 

And  that  is  how  amid  the  salt  bite  of  the 
homeless  wave  there  grew  the  Gardens  of  the 
Sea.  That  is  how  it  came  about  that  the  weed 
trailed  in  running  waters,  and  the  sea-moss 
swayed  in  brackish  estuaries,  and  the  wrack 
clung  or  swam  in  tangles  of  olive-brown  and 
green  and  soft  and  dusky  reds. 

What  a  long  preamble  to  the  story  of 
how  the  Seaweeds  were  once  sweet-smelling 
blooms  of  the  shores  and  valleys!  Of  how 
the  flowers  of  meadow  and  woodland,  of  the 
sun-swept .  plain  and  the  shadowy  hill,  had 
once  song  as  well  as  sweet  odours:  how,  of 
these,  many  lost  not  only  fragrance  but  inno- 
cent beauty:  and  how  out  of  a  rose  and  a 
blade  of  grass  and  a  breath  of  the  wind  the 
first  birds  were  made,  the  souls  of  the  green 
earth,  winged,  and  voiced. 

To-day  I  sit  amongst  deep,  shelving  rocks 
by  the  shore,  in  a  desolate  place  where  basaltic 
cliffs  shut  away  the  familiar  world,  and  where, 
in  front,  the  otherworld  of  the  sea  reaches 
beyond  sight  to  follow  the  lifted  wave  against 
the  grey  skyline,  or  is  it  the  grey  lip  of  the 
274 


The  Gardens  of  the  Sea 

fallen  horizon  ?  Looking  down  I  can  perceive 
the  olive-brown  and  green  seaweed  swaying  in 
the  slow  movement  of  the  tide.  Like  drifted 
hair,  the  long  thin  filaments  of  the  Mermaid's 
Locks  (Chorda  Filum)  sinuously  twist,  inter- 
twine, involve,  and  unfold.  It  is  as  though  a 
seawoman  rose  and  fell,  idly  swam  or  idly 
swung  this  way  and  that,  asleep  on  the  tide : 
nothing  visible  of  her  wave-grey  body  but 
only  her  long  fatal  hair,  that  so  many  a  swim- 
mer has  had  cause  to  dread,  from  whose  em- 
brace so  many  a  swimmer  has  never  risen. 
In  the  rock-set  pools  the  flesh-hued  fans  of 
the  dulse  indolently  stir.  Wave-undulated 
over  them  are  fronds  of  a  lovely  green  weed, 
delicate,  transparent :  above  these,  two  phan- 
tom fish,  rock-cod  or  saithe,  float  motionless. 

Idly  watching,  idly  dreaming  thus,  I  recall 
part  of  a  forgotten  poem  about  the  woods  of 
the  sea,  and  the  finned  silent  creatures  that  are 
its  birds:  and  how  there  are  stags  and  wolves 
in  these  depths,  long  hounds  of  the  sea,  mer- 
men and  merwomen  and  seal-folk.  Others, 
too,  for  whom  we  have  no  name,  we  being 
wave-blind  and  so  unable  to  discern  these 
comers  and  goers  of  the  shadow.  Also,  how 
old  sea-divinities  lie  there  asleep,  and  perilous 
phantoms  come  out  of  sunken  ships  and 
ancient  weed-grown  towns ;  and  how  there 

275 


The  Gardens  of  the  Sea 

roams  abroad,  alike  in  the  flowing  wave 
and  along  the  sheer  green-darkening  bodiless 
walls,  an  incalculable  Terror  that  may  be 
manifold,  the  cold  implacable  demons  of  the 
deep,  or  may  be  One,  that  grey  timeworn 
Death  whom  men  have  called  Poseidon  and 
Mananan  and  by  many  names. 

What  a  mysterious  world  this  Tir-fo-Tuinn, 
this  Land-Under-Wave.  How  little  we  know 
of  it,  for  all  that  wise  men  have  told  us  con- 
cerning the  travelling  tides,  of  currents  as 
mysteriously  steadfast  in  their  comings  and 
goings  as  the  comets  that  from  age  to  age 
loom  briefly  upon  the  stellar  roads :  how  little, 
though  they  have  put  learned  designations  to 
a  thousand  weeds,  and  given  names  to  ten 
thousand  creatures  to  whom  the  whole  world 
of  man  and  all  his  hopes  and  dreams  are  less 
than  a  phantom,  less  than  foam.  The  Gaelic 
poet  who  said  that  the  man  who  goes  to  Tir- 
fo-Tuinn  goes  into  another  world,  where  the 
human  soul  is  sand,  and  God  is  but  the  un- 
loosened salt,  tells  us  as  much  as  the  scientist 
who  probes  the  ocean-mud  and  reveals  dim 
crustacean  life  where  one  had  believed  to  be 
only  a  lifeless  dark.  Above  the  weed-held 
palaces  of  Atlantis,  over  the  soundless  bells 
of  Ys,  above  where  Lyonesse  is  gathered  in  a 
foamless  oblivion,  the  plummet  may  sink  and 
276 


The  Gardens  of  the  Sea 

lift  a  few  broken  shells,  the  drag-net  may 
bring  to  the  surface  an  unknown  sea-snail  or 
such  a  microscopic  green  Alga  as  that  Halo- 
sphoera  viridis  which  science  has  discovered 
in  the  great  depths  beyond  the  reach  of  sun- 
light: but  who  can  tell,  perchance  how  few 
who  care  to  know,  what  Love  was,  long  ago, 
when  there  were  poets  in  Lyonesse:  what 
worship  was  served  by  white-robed  priests 
among  the  sunken  fanes  of  Ys :  what  dreams 
withstayed  and  what  passions  beset  the  noble 
and  the  ignoble  in  drowned  Atlantis,  what  em- 
pires rose  and  fell  there,  what  gods  were 
lauded  and  dethroned,  and  for  how  long  Des- 
tiny was  patient. 

Even  in  the  little  pools  that  lie  shoreward 
of  the  Gardens  of  the  Sea  what  beauty  there 
is,  what  obscure  life,  what  fascinating  "  other- 
world  "  association.  This  piece  of  kelp  is  at 
once  Fucus  vesiculosus  and  the  long  fingers  of 
the  Cailliach-Mhara,  the  Sea-Witch.  This 
great  smooth  frond  is  ...  I  do  not  know,  or 
forget:  but  it  is  the  kale  of  Manan,  in  sea- 
groves  of  which  that  Shepherd  pastures  his 
droves  of  uncouth  sea-swine.  This  green 
tracery  has  a  Greek  or  Latin  name,  but  in 
legend  it  is  called  the  Mermaid's  Lace.  This 
little  flame-like  crest  of  undulating  wrack  has 
a  designation  longer  than  itself,  but  in  tales  of 
277 


The  Gardens  of  the  Sea 

faerie  we  know  it  to  be  that  of  which  the  caps 
of  the  pool-elves  are  fashioned. 

In  the  Isles  seaweed  has  many  local  names, 
but  is  always  mainly  divided  into  Yellow 
Tails,  Dark  Tails,  and  Red  Tails  (Feamainn 
bhuidhe,  feamainn  dubh,  and  feamainn  dearg). 
The  first  comprise  all  the  yellowish,  light- 
brown,  and  olive-brown  seaware;  the  second 
all  the  dark-green,  and  also  all  green  wrack; 
the  third,  the  red.  The  common  seaware  or 
kelp  or  tang  (Fucus  vesiculosus)  is  generally 
called  propach,  or  other  variant  signifying 
tangled:  and  the  bladder-wrack,  feamainn 
bholgainn  or  builgeach,  "  baggy-tails."  I  have 
at  times  collected  many  local  names  of  these 
weeds,  and  not  a  few  superstitions  and  le- 
gends. Naturally,  the  most  poetic  of  these 
are  connected  with  the  Chorda  filum  or  Dead 
Man's  Hair,  which  has  a  score  of  popular 
names,  from  "  corpsy-ropes  "  to  the  occasional 
Gaelic  gillemu  lunn,  which  may  be  rendered 
"  the  wave's  gillie  "  or  "  servant  of  the  wave  " : 
with  the  drifted  gulf-weed,  whose  sea-grapes 
are  called  uibhean  sithein,  fairy  eggs,  and  are 
eagerly  sought  for:  and  with  the  duileasg,  or 
dulse.  Even  to  this  day,  in  remote  parts,  an 
ancient  seaweed-rite  survives  in  the  propitia- 
tory offerings  (now  but  a  pastime  of  island 
children)  to  the  Hebridean  sea-god  Shony  at 
278 


The  Gardens  of  the  Sea 

Samhain  ( Hallo wmass).  This  Shony,  whose 
favours  were  won  by  a  cup  of  ale  thrown 
into  the  sea  in  the  dark  of  the  night,  is  none 
other  than  Poseidon,  Neptune,  Manan ;  for  he 
is  the  Scandinavian  sea-god  Sjoni,  viking- 
brought  from  Lochlin  in  the  far-off  days  when 
the  Summer-sailors  raided  and  laid  waste  the 
Gaelic  Isles. 

It  is  singular  how  rarely  seaweed  has  en- 
tered into  the  nomenclature  and  symbology  of 
peoples,  how  seldom  it  is  mentioned  in  ancient 
literature.  Among  our  Gaelic  clans  there  is 
only  one  (the  M 'Neil)  which  has  sea  ware  as 
a  badge.  Greek  art  has  left  us  a  few  sea- 
weed-filleted heads  of  Gorgons,  and  to  sea- 
wrack  the  Latin  poets  have  once  or  twice 
made  but  passing  and  contemptuous  allusion. 
In  the  Bible  ("  whaur  ye'll  find  everything 
frae  a  bat  to  a  unicorn,"  as  an  old  man  said 
to  me  once)  there  is  one  mention  of  it  only, 
in  Jonah's  words :  "  The  depths  closed  me 
round  about,  the  weeds  were  wrapped  about 
my  head." 


279 


THE   MILKY   WAY 

With  the  first  sustained  breath  of  frost  the 
beauty  of  the  Galaxy  becomes  the  chief  glory 
of  the  nocturnal  skies.  But  in  midsummer 
even  what  amplitude  of  space,  what  infinite 
depths  it  reveals,  and  how  mysterious  that 
filmy  stardrift  blown  like  a  streaming  banner 
from  behind  the  incalculable  brows  of  an  un- 
resting Lord  of  Space,  one  of  those  Sons  of 
the  Invisible,  as  an  oriental  poet  has  it,  whose 
ceaseless  rush  through  eternity  leaves  but  this 
thin  and  often  scarce  visible  dust,  "  delicate  as 
the  tost  veil  of  a  dancing  girl  swaying  against 
the  wind."  Perhaps  no  one  of  our  poets,  and 
poetry  ancient  and  modern  and  of  every  coun- 
try and  race  is  full  of  allusions  to  the  Galaxy, 
has  more  happily  imaged  it  in  a  single  line 
than  Longfellow  has  done  in 

"Torrent  of  light  and  river  of  the  air." 

As  a  river,  or  as  a  winding  serpent,  or  as  a 
stellar   road,   it  has   imaginatively  been  con- 
ceived by  almost  every  people,  though  many 
280 


The  Milky  Way 

races  have  delighted  in  the  bestowal  of  a 
specific  name,  as  though  it  were  not  an  ag- 
gregation of  star-clusters  and  nebulae,  but 
a  marvellous  creature  of  the  heavens,  as, 
perhaps,  we  may  conceive  the  Great  Bear, 
or  Orion,  or  moons-beset  Jupiter,  or  Saturn 
among  his  mysterious  rings.  Thus  in  the 
Book  of  Job  it  is  called  the  Crooked  Serpent ; 
the  Hindus  of  Northern  India  call  it  the  Dove 
of  Paradise  (Swarga  Duari),  though  they 
have  or  had  a  still  finer  name  signifying  the 
Court  of  God ;  and  the  Polynesians  give  it  the 
strange  but  characteristic  designation.  "  The 
Long,  Blue,  Cloud-Eating  Shark." 

Last  night  I  watched  the  immense  tract  for 
a  long  time.  There  was  frost  in  the  air,  for 
I  saw  that  singular  pulsation  which  rightly  or 
wrongly  is  commonly  held  to  be  an  optical  il- 
lusion, the  aspect  as  of  a  pulse,  or  of  an  un- 
dulating motion  of  life  such  as  one  might 
dimly  perceive  in  the  still  respiration  of  some 
sleeping  saurian.  There  appeared  to  be  count- 
less small  stars,  and  in  the  darker  spaces  the 
pale  vaporous  drift  became  like  the  trail  of 
phosphorescence  in  the  wake  of  a  vessel:  at 
times  it  seemed  almost  solid,  a  road  paven 
with  diamonds  and  the  dust  of  precious  stones, 
with  flakes  as  of  the  fallen  plumage  of  wings 
— truly  Arianrod,  the  Silver  Road,  as  the 
281 


The  Milky  Way 

Celts  of  old  called  it.  Of  course  it  was  no 
more  than  a  fantasy  of  the  dreaming  imagina- 
tion, but  it  seemed  to  me  more  than  once  that 
as  a  vast  indefinite  sigh  came  from  the  wind- 
less but  nevertheless  troubled  sea  there  was  a 
corresponding  motion  in  that  white  mysteri- 
ous Milky  Way,  so  infinitely  remote.  It  was 
as  though  the  Great  Snake — as  so  many  by- 
gone peoples  called  and  as  many  submerged 
races  still  call  the  Galaxy — lay  watching  from 
its  eternal  lair  that  other  Serpent  of  Ocean 
which  girdles  the  rolling  orb  of  our  onward- 
rushing  Earth:  and  breathed  in  slow  myste- 
rious response:  and,  mayhap,  sighed  also  into 
the  unscanned  void  a  sigh  infinitely  more  vast, 
a  sigh  that  would  reach  remote  planets  and 
fade  along  the  gulfs  of  incalculable  shores. 

As  winter  comes,  the  Milky  Way  takes  on 
a  new  significance  for  pastoral  and  other  lone- 
ly peoples,  for  shepherds  and  fisher-folk 
above  all.  Songs  and  poems  and  legends 
make  it  familiar  to  everyone.  A  hundred 
tales  own  it  as  a  mysterious  background,  as 
Broceliande  is  the  background  of  a  hundred 
Breton  ballads,  or  as  Avalon  is  the  back- 
ground of  a  hundred  romances  of  the  Cymric 
and  Gaelic  Celt.  The  Hebridean  islanders 
seldom  look  at  it  on  still  frosty  nights  without 
in  the  long  idle  hours  recalling  some  old  name 
282 


The  Milky  Way 

or  allusion,  some  ancient  rann  or  oran,  some 
duan  or  iorram  of  a  later  day,  related  to  the 
mystery  and  startling  appealing  beauty  of  the 
Silver  Road.  It  has  many  names  on  the  lips 
of  these  simple  men,  who  have  little  learning 
beyond  the  Bible  and  what  life  on  the  waters 
and  life  in  the  hearts  of  other  simple  men  and 
women  have  taught  them.  Sometimes  these 
names  are  beautiful,  as  "  Dust  of  the  World  " 
(or  universe,  an  domhain)  or  the  "  Kyle  of 
the  Angels  "  (the  Strait  or  Sound)  :  sometimes 
apt  and  natural,  as  "  the  Herring  Way,"  and 
"  the  Wake  " :  sometimes  legendary,  as  "  the 
Road  of  the  Kings  "  (the  old  gods,  from  Fionn 
back  to  the  Tuatha  Dedannan)  or  as  "  the 
Pathway  of  the  Secret  People  " :  sometimes 
sombre  or  grotesque,  as  "  The  Shroud  "  or  as 
"  the  Bag  of  the  Great  Miller." 

There  is  especial  interest  for  us,  of  course, 
in  the  legendary  associations  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  and  Scandinavian  and  Celtic  or  Gaelic 
peoples.  These,  in  common  with  the  majority 
of  western  nations,  image  the  Milky  Way 
more  as  a  "  road  "  or  "  street "  than  as  a  ser- 
pent or  than  as  a  river — though  the  Norse  have 
their  Midhgardhsormr,  connected  in  associa- 
tion with  the  Weltum-Spanner  ("  Stretcher- 
round-the- World")  or  Ocean-Stream. 

I  do  not  know  when  the  Milky  Way  as  a 

283 


The  Milky  Way 

designation  first  came  into  common  English 
use.  Possibly  there  is  no  prior  mention  to 
that  in  Chaucer's  Hous  of  Fame : 

"Se  yonder,  lo,  the  Galaxye, 
Which  men  clepeth  the  Milky  Wey" 

— an  allusion  which  certainly  points  to  already 
familiar  usage.  It  is  now,  I  fancy,  almost 
universal.  Perhaps  the  old  translator  Eden 
was  among  the  first  to  popularise  it,  with  his 
rendering  of  the  Latin  Via  Lactis  and  Via 
Lactea  as  "  the  Mylke  way "  and  "  Mylke 
whyte  way."  There  has  been  no  need  to  de- 
rive the  term  from  the  Italian  Via  lattea  or 
the  French  Voie  lactee,  since  Eden's  use  and 
Chaucer's  preceded  that  of  any  French  poet  or 
romancist.  Certainly  the  phrase  became  part 
of  our  literature  after  it  passed  golden  from 
the  mint  of  Milton  (paraphrasing  Ovid) — 

"Broad  and  ample  road  whose  dust  is  gold, 
And  pavement  stars,  as  stars  to  thee  appear 
Seen  in  the  Galaxy,  that  milky  way 
Which  nightly  as  a  circling  zone  thou  seest 
Powdered  with  stars.  .  .  ." 

It  is  rarely  now  alluded  to  as  the  Galaxy,  and 
probably  never  by  unlettered  people.  In  most 
parts  of  England  for  centuries,  and  it  is  said 
in  many  parts  still,  the  common  designation  is 
284 


The  Milky  Way 

"  the  Way  of  Saint  James."  This  has  a  sin- 
gular correspondence  in  the  name  popular 
among  the  French  peasants,  "the  Road  of 
Saint  Jacques  of  Compostella."  Originally  a 
like  designation  was  common  in  Spain,  though 
for  a  thousand  years  the  popular  epithet  runs 
El  Camino  de  Santiago,  after  the  Warrior- 
Saint  of  the  Iberian  peoples.  I  am  told  that 
"  the  Way  of  Saint  James  "  is  common  in  cer- 
tain counties  of  England,  but  I  have  never 
heard  it,  nor  do  I  wholly  recall  the  reason  of 
this  particular  nomenclature.  In  some  form 
the  road-idea  continually  recurs.  How  many 
readers  of  these  notes  will  know  that  the  fa- 
miliar "  Watling  Street  " — that  ancient  tho- 
roughfare from  Chester  through  the  heart  of 
London  to  Dover — was  also  applied  to  this 
Galaxy  that  perchance  they  may  look  at  to- 
night from  quiet  country-side,  or  village,  or 
distant  towns,  or  by  the  turbulent  seas  of  our 
unquiet  coasts,  or  by  still  waters  wherein  the 
reflection  lies  and  scintillates  like  a  phantom 
phosphorescence.  Watling  Street  does  not 
sound  a  poetic  equivalent  for  the  Milky  Way, 
but  it  has  a  finer  and  more  ancient  derivation 
than  "  the  Way  of  Saint  James."  The  word 
goes  back  to  Hoveden's  "  Watlinga-Strete," 
itself  but  slightly  anglicised  from  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  Waetlinga  Straet,  where  the  words 

285 


The  Milky  Way 

mean  the  Path  of  the  Wetlings,  the  giant  sons 
of  King  Waetla,  possibly  identical  with  the 
giant  sons  of  Turenn  of  ancient  Gaelic  legend, 
heroes  who  went  out  to  achieve  deeds  impos- 
sible to  men,  and  traversed  earth  and  sea  and 
heaven  itself  in  their  vast  epical  wanderings. 
Another  curious  old  English  name  of  the  Gal- 
axy, of  great  beauty  in  its  significance,  is 
"  Walsyngham  Way."  Why  the  Galaxy  should 
be  so  called  might  well  puzzle  us,  were  it  not 
explained  by  the  fact  that  up  till  near  the 
middle  of  the  sixteenth  century  one  of  the 
most  common  English  names  of  the  Virgin 
Mary  was  "  Our  Lady  of  Walsyngham,"  from 
the  fact  that  the  Blessed  Mother's  chief  shrine 
in  the  country  was  at  Walsyngham  Abbey  in 
Norfolk.  Further,  as  "  the  Way  to  Walsyng- 
ham "  in  common  parlance  signified  the  road 
to  the  earthly  tabernacle  of  Mary,  so  "  Wal- 
syngham Way,"  as  applied  to  the  Galaxy,  sig- 
nified the  celestial  road  to  the  virgin  Mother 
in  heaven.  Much  more  barbaric  is  a  name 
for  the  Milky  Way  still  to  be  heard  in  Celtic 
Wales,  Caer  Gwydyon,  the  Castle  or  Fortress 
of  Gwython.  This  Gwython  or  Gwydyon 
was  a  kind  of  Merlin  Sylvestris.  He  was 
known  as  the  Enchanter,  the  Wizard  as  we 
would  say  now,  and  was  feared  on  this  ac- 
count, and  because  he  was  the  son  of  Don, 


The  Milky  Way 

King  of  the  Otherworld,  Lord  of  the  Secret 
People,  the  "  fairies  "  of  later  tradition.  Like 
Crania,  the  beautiful  wife  of  Fionn,  whose 
elopement  with  Dermid  and  their  subsequent 
epical  odyssey  is  the  subject  of  one  of  the 
greatest  and  to  this  day  most  popular  of 
Gaelic  legendary  romances,  the  wife  of  Gwy- 
thon  fled  from  his  following  vengeance  from 
land  to  land,  across  seas,  over  mountains,  "  to 
the  ends  of  the  earth,"  and  at  last  with  her 
faery  lover  dared  the  vast  untrodden  ways  of 
the  remote  skies.  But  long  before  they  could 
reach  Arcturus,  or  whatever  the  star  or  planet 
to  which  they  fled,  Gwython  overtook  them, 
led  by  the  dust  which  these  mortal  if  semi- 
divine  fugitives  made  along  the  soundless  dark 
blue  roads  of  heaven.  He  slew  them  and 
their  winged  horses  and  their  aerial  hounds, 
and  standing  on  the  verge  of  space  flung  the 
heads  and  limbs  and  bodies  into  infinitude. 
Hence  the  meteors  and  falling  stars  which  at 
the  season  of  the  autumnal  equinox  and  at  the 
approach  of  winter  may  still  be  seen  whirling 
adown  the  bastions  of  high  heaven.  So  ter- 
rible in  tragedy,  so  titanic  the  deed,  that  to 
all  eternity,  or  as  long  as  our  world  endures, 
the  phantom  iteration  of  that  mighty  ven- 
geance shall  commemorate  the  inappeasable 
anger  of  Gwython  the  Enchanter.  Is  there 
287 


The  Milky  Way. 

not  convincing  evidence  in  the  unpassing  dust 
of  that  silent  highway  of  the  doomed  lovers 
.  .  .  the  dust  of  the  trampled  star-way  that 
no  wind  of  space  has  blown  to  this  side  or  to 
that,  that  no  alchemy  of  sun  or  moon  has 
burned  up  or  like  dew  dissolved? 

Besides  "  Watling  Street,"  our  Anglo-Saxon 
forbears  had  Iringes  Weg  or  Wee  and  Bil- 
Iduris  Weg\  Iringe  and  Bil-Idun  having  been 
famous  descendants  of  the  Waetla  already  al- 
luded to.  They  were  warders  of  the  Bridge 
of  Asgard,  the  Scandinavian  Heaven.  In 
time  this  Asgard-Bridge  came  to  be  given  as 
a  name  to  the  Milky  Way  .  .  .  though  the 
later  poets  applied  the  epithet  also  to  the 
Rainbow.  Readers  of  Grimm's  Teutonic  My- 
thology will  remember  that  he  cites  many 
collateral  instances.  Thus  the  Vikings  knew 
the  Galaxy  as  Wuotanes  Straza,  or  "  Woden's 
Street " ;  the  Dutch  have  in  common  use 
Vronelden  Straat,  "  the  women's  Street  "  ;  and 
the  German  peasants  commonly  call  it  Jakob's 
Weg.  The  Westphalian  term  is  singular  and 
suggestive,  "  Weather  Street."  One  wonders 
if  there  is  any  common  idea  that  weather  is  in 
any  way  as  closely  associated  with  the  Milky 
Way  as  are  the  vernal  floods  and  the  autumnal 
rains  with  the  Pleiades.  Probably  the  be- 
stowal of  the  name  is  due  to  the  fact  that 
288 


The  Milky  Way 

when  the  Galaxy  is  clear  and  bright  and  scin- 
tillant  the  weather  is  serene  and  dry.  A 
more  poetic  designation  is  that  of  the  Finns, 
who  delight  in  the  term  Linnunrata,  the  Birds' 
Way,  either  from  an  old  Finnish  and  Esthon- 
ian  legend  that  once  by  a  miracle  all  the  songs 
of  all  the  birds  of  the  world  were  turned  into 
a  cloud  of  snow-white  tiny  wings,  or  from  the 
more  likely  belief  that  it  is  the  road  of  winged 
spirits  on  their  passage  from  earth  to  heaven. 
This  is,  of  course,  a  very  ancient  conception. 
The  ancient  Hindus  revealed  it  in  the  phrase 
"  the  Path  of  Ahriman  " :  the  ancient  Norse  as 
"  the  Path  of  the  Ghosts  "  going  to  Valhalla : 
the  ancient  Gaels  as  the  Hero- Way,  leading 
from  Earth  to  Flatheanas,  the  Abode  of  Eter- 
nal Youth.  It  is  strange  and  suggestive  that 
not  only  the  North  American  aborigines  called 
it  "the  Trail  to  Ponemah  "  (the  Hereafter), 
but  that  people  so  rude  as  the  Eskimo  and  the 
Bushmen  of  South  Africa  call  it  "  the  Ashen 
Path,"  the  road  of  fire-ember  signals,  for  the 
ghosts  of  the  dead.  Even  the  Patagonians 
speak  of  the  Milky  Way  as  the  white  pampas 
where  their  dead  are  immortal  huntsmen  re- 
joicing in  the  pursuit  of  countless  ostriches. 
But  of  all  popular  names  I  do  not  think  any 
is  more  apt  and  pleasant  than  that  common  to 
the  Swedish  peasantry,  who  call  the  Galaxy 
289 


The  Milky  Way 

Winter  Gatan—i.e,,  "Winter  Street."  It  is 
the  Winter  Street  we  must  all  travel  some 
day,  if  the  old  poets  say  true,  when  the  green 
grass  grows  on  our  quiet  beds,  when  the 
loudest  wind  will  not  fret  the  silence  in  our 
tired  minds,  and  when  day  and  night  are  be- 
come old  forgotten  dreams.  May  we  too  find 
it  the  Pathway  of  Peace  ...  not  the  least 
beautiful  of  the  names  of  the  Milky  Way,  not 
the  least  beautiful  of  the  legends  connected 
with  that  lovely  wonder  of  our  nocturnal 
skies. 


290 


SEPTEMBER 

September:  the  very  name  has  magic.  In 
an  old  book,  half  in  Latin  half  in  English, 
about  the  months,  which  I  came  upon  in  a 
forgotten  moth-eaten  library  years  ago,  and 
in  part  copied,  and  to  my  regret  have  not  seen 
or  heard  of  since,  or  anywhere  been  able  to 
trace,  I  remember  a  singular  passage  about 
this  month.  Much  had  been  said  about  the 
flowers  of  "  these  golden  weekes  that  doe  lye 
between  the  thunderous  heates  of  summer  and 
the  windy  gloomes  of  winter " ;  of  those 
flowers  and  plants  which  bloom  in  gardens, 
and  those,  as  the  harebell  and  poppy  and  late- 
flowering  gorse,  which  light  the  green  garths 
of  meadow  and  woodland;  as  the  bryony, 
which  trails  among  the  broken  copses  and 
interweaves  the  ruddy  masses  of  bramble;  as 
the  traveller's-joy,  which  hangs  its  frail 
wreaths  of  phantom-snow  along  the  crests  of 
every  hedgerow  of  beech  and  hornbeam.  Of 
the  changing  colours  of  the  trees,  too,  the  old 
writer  had  much  to  say :  of  the  limes  "  that 
become  wan  and  spotted  as  a  doe,"  of  the 
291 


September 

mountain-ash  "  that  has  its  long  fingers  dyed 
redd  and  browne,"  of  "  the  wyche-elme  whose 
gold  is  let  loose  on  the  wind  after  nighte-frosts 
and  cold  dawnes."  Nor  did  he  forget  that 
"  greate  beautie  of  mistes "  which  we  all 
know;  and  he  reached  eloquence  when  he 
spoke  of  the  apple-orchards  and  of  the  wall- 
fruits  of  "  olde  manor-gardenns  "  —  "  the 
peache  that  women  and  poetes  doe  make  the 
queene  of  fruites,"  "  the  rich  glowe  and  savour 
of  the  apricock,"  "  the  delicate  jargonell  that 
keepes  the  sweetes  of  France  in  olde  warme 
English  gardenns."  Of  wild-fruit,  also,  he 
had  dainty  words  and  phrases.  Blackberries, 
"  the  darke-blue  bilberry,"  the  sloe  "  whose 
excellent  purple  bloode  maketh  so  fine  a  com- 
fort," "  the  dusky  clustres  of  the  hasel,"  "  the 
green-smockt  filberte,"  and  so  forth.  Even 
upon  mushrooms  he  had  words  of  sun  and 
wind  and  dew,  so  lightsome  were  they,  ar- 
dent and  joyous,  with  a  swift  movement — as 
though  writ  by  one  who  remembered  gather- 
ing "  musherooms  "  in  a  sun-sweet  dawn  after 
a  night  of  heavy  dews,  in  company  with  an- 
other who  laughed  often  in  gladness  and  was 
dearest  and  fairest  of  all  dear  and  fair  things. 
"  Howbeit,"  he  added,  after  sorrowing  that 
"  many  doe  feare  these  goodly  musherooms  as 
poysonis  dampe  weedes,"  "  this  dothe  in  no- 
292 


September 

wise  abate  the  exceedynge  excellence  of 
Goddes  providence  that  out  of  the  grasse 
and  dewe  where  nothing  was,  and  where 
onlie  the  lytell  worme  turned  in  his  sporte, 
comes  as  at  the  shakynge  of  bells  these 
delicate  meates." 

Then,  after  some  old-world  lore  about  "  the 
wayes  of  nature  with  beastes  and  byrdes  "  in 
this  month,  he  goes  further  afield.  "  And  this 
monthe,"  he  says,  "  is  the  monthe  of  dreames, 
and  when  there  is  a  darke  (or  secret)  fyre  in 
the  heartes  of  poetes,  and  when  the  god  of 
Love  is  fierce  and  tyrannick  in  imaginings  and 
dreames,  and  they  doe  saye  in  deedes  also,  yett 
not  after  the  midwaye  of  the  monthe;  butt 
whye  I  know  not." 

We  hear  so  much  of  the  poet-loved  and 
poet-sung  month  of  May,  and  the  very  name 
of  June  is  sweet  as  its  roses  and  white  lilies 
and  lavender,  that  it  is  become  a  romantic 
convention  to  associate  them  with  "  dreames  " 
and  the  "  tyrannick  "  season  of  "  the  god  of 
Love."  But  I  am  convinced  that  the  old  Eliz- 
abethan or  Jacobean  naturalist  was  right. 
May  and  June  are  months  of  joy,  but  Sep- 
tember is  the  month  of  "  dreames  "  and  "  darke 
fyre."  Ask  those  who  love  nature  as  the  poet 
is  supposed  to  love  her,  with  something  of 
ecstasy  perhaps,  certainly  with  underglow  of 

293 


September 

passion :  ask  those  in  whom  the  imagination  is 
as  a  quickening  and  waning  but  never  absent 
flame:  ask  this  man  who  travels  from  month 
to  month  seeking  what  he  shall  never  find,  or 
this  woman  whose  memories  and  dreams  are 
sunny,  howsoever  few  her  hopes  .  .  .  and  the 
chance  will  be  that  if  asked  to  name  the 
month  of  the  heart's  love,  it  will  be  Septem- 
ber. I  do  not  altogether  know  why  this 
should  be  so,  if  so  it  is.  There  is  that  in  June 
which  has  a  time-defying  magic :  May  has  her 
sweet  affinities  with  Spring  in  the  human 
heart :  in  April  are  the  flutes  of  Pan :  March 
is  stormy  with  the  clarions  of  the  winds: 
October  can  be  wild  with  all  wildness,  or  be 
the  calm  mirror  of  the  passing  of  the  love- 
liness of  the  green-world.  There  is  not  a 
month  that  has  not  its  own  signal  beauty,  so 
that  many  love  best  February,  because  through 
her  surge  of  rains  appear  days  of  blue  won- 
der, with  the  song  of  the  missel-thrush  tost 
like  spray  from  bare  boughs — or  November, 
because  in  the  grey  silence  one  may  hear  the 
fall  of  the  sere  leaves,  and  see  mist  and  wan 
blueness  make  a  new  magic  among  deserted 
woods — or  January,  when  all  the  visible  world 
lies  in  a  white  trance,  strange  and  still  and 
miraculous  as  death  transfigured  to  a  brief 
and  terrible  loveliness  on  the  face  of  one  sud- 
294 


September 

denly  quiet  from  the  fever  of  youth  and 
proud  beauty.  There  is  not  a  month  when 
the  gold  of  the  sun  and  the  silver  of  the  moon 
are  not  woven,  when  the  rose  of  sunset  does 
not  lie  upon  hills  which  reddened  to  the 
rose  of  dawn,  when  the  rainbow  is  not  let 
loose  from  the  tangled  nets  of  rain  and  wind, 
when  the  morning-star  and  the  evening-star  do 
not  rise  and  set. 

And  yet,  for  some,  there  is  no  month  that 
has  the  veiled  magic  of  September. 

"  The  month  of  peace,"  "  the  month  of 
beauty,"  it  is  called  in  many  Gaelic  songs  and 
tales ;  and  often,  "  Summer-end."  I  remem- 
ber an  old  rann,  perhaps  still  said  or  sung  be- 
fore the  peat-fires,  that  it  was  in  this  month 
God  created  Peace ;  again,  an  island-tale  of 
Christ  as  a  shepherd  and  the  months  as  sheep 
strayed  upon  the  hills  of  time.  The  Shepherd 
went  out  upon  the  hills,  and  gathered  them 
one  by  one,  and  led  them  to  the  fold :  but,  be- 
fore the  fold  was  reached,  a  great  wind  of 
snow  came  down  out  of  the  corries,  and  on 
the  left  a  wild  flood  arose,  and  on  the  narrow 
path  there  was  room  only,  and  that  hardly, 
for  the  Shepherd.  So  He  looked  to  see  which 
one  of  the  twelve  He  might  perchance  save, 
by  lifting  it  in  His  strong  arms  and  going  with 
it  alone  to  the  fold.  He  looked  long,  for  all 

295 


September 

were  the  children  of  His  Father.  Then  He 
lifted  September,  saying,  "  Even  so,  because 
thou  art  the  month  of  fulfilment,  and  because 
thy  secret  name  is  Peace."  But  when  He 
came  out  of  the  darkness  to  the  fold,  the 
Shepherd  went  back  between  the  wild  lips  of 
flood  and  tempest,  and  brought  to  the  fold 
June,  saying,  "  Because  thy  secret  name  is 
Joy  " :  and,  in  turn,  one  by  one,  He  brought 
each  to  the  fold,  saying  unto  each,  in  this 
order,  "  May,  because  thy  secret  name  is 
Love  " ;  "  April,  because  thou  art  made  of 
tears  and  laughter  " ;  "  July,  because  thou  art 
Beauty  "  ;  "  August,  thou  quiet  Mother  "  ; 
"  October,  because  thy  name  is  Content " ; 
March,  because  thy  name  is  Strife  " ;  "  Feb- 
ruary, because  thy  name  is  Hope  " ;  "  Novem- 
ber, because  thy  name  is  Silence  " ;  "  January, 
because  thou  art  Death " ;  and  at  the  last, 
"  December,  whom  I  have  left  to  the  end,  for 
neither  tempest  could  whelm  nor  flood  drown 
thee,  for  thy  name  is  the  Resurrection  and  the 
Life." 

And  when  the  tale  was  told,  some  one 
would  say,  "  But  how,  then,  was  September 
chosen  first?  " 

And  the  teller  would  say,  "  Because  its  se- 
cret name  is  Peace,  and  Peace  is  the  secret 
name  of  Christ." 

296 


September 

It  is  no  wonder  the  poets  have  loved  so 
well  this  month  whose  name  has  in  it  all  the 
witchery  of  the  North.  There  is  the  majesty 
of  the  hill-solitudes  in  it,  when  the  moorlands 
are  like  a  purple  sea.  It  has  the  freshness  of 
the  dew-white  bramble-copses,  of  the  bracken 
become  russet  and  pale  gold,  of  the  wandering 
frostfire  along  the  highways  of  the  leaf,  that 
mysterious  breath  whose  touch  is  silent  flame. 
It  is  the  month  when  the  sweet,  poignant  sec- 
ond-song of  the  robin  stirs  the  heart  as  a 
child's  gladness  among  tears.  "  The  singer  of 
September,"  a  Gaelic  poet  calls  it,  and  many 
will  recall  the  lovely  lines  of  the  old  half-for- 
gotten Elizabethan  poet  on  the  bird 

"That  hath  the  bugle  eyes  and  ruddy  breast 
And  is  the  yellow  autumn's  nightingale." 

It  is  strange  how  much  bird-lore  and  beast- 
lore  lie  with  September.  The  moor-cock,  the 
stag,  the  otter,  the  sea-wandering  salmon,  the 
corncrake,  and  the  cuckoo  and  the  swift,  I 
know  not  how  many  others,  have  their  tale 
told  or  their  farewell  sung  to  the  sound  and 
colour  of  September.  The  poets  have  loved 
it  for  the  unreturning  feet  of  Summer  whose 
vanishing  echoes  are  in  its  haunted  aisles,  and 
for  the  mysterious  silences  of  the  veiled  ar- 
297 


September 

rivals   of  Winter.     It  is  the  month   of   the 
year's  fulfillings — 

"Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness, 
Close-bosom 'd  friend  of  the  maturing  sun." 

And  yet  there  are  other  Septembers  than 
the  Septembers  of  memory,  than  the  Sep- 
tembers of  the  imagination.  For  three  years 
past  the  month  has  come  with  rains  from  the 
sea  and  cold  winds  out  of  the  east  and  north. 
The  robin's  song  has  been  poignantly  sweet  as 
of  yore,  but  the  dream-glow  has  been  rare 
upon  the  hill  and  valley,  and  in  the  woods  and 
on  the  moor-slopes  the  leaf  has  hung  ban- 
nerets of  dusky  yellow,  and  the  bracken 
burned  dully  without  amber  and  flamelit 
bronze.  This  year,  though,  there  has  been 
some  return  of  those  September  days  which 
we  believe  in  while  yet  a  long  way  off,  as  we 
believe  in  May,  as  we  feel  assured  of  June. 
This  last  June  was  truly  a  month  of  roses,  and 
in  May  the  east  wind  slept :  but  last  year  the 
roses  trailed  along  flooded  byways,  and  the 
east  wind  nipped  bud  and  blossom  through 
the  bleak  days  of  "  the  merry  month,"  and  a 
colourless  and  forlorn  September  must  have 
chilled  even  that  "  darke  fyre  in  the  heartes  of 
poetes "  of  which  the  old  naturalist  wrote. 
298 


September 

There  have  been  days  of  peace  this  year,  and 
of  the  whole  beauty  of  Summer-end.  In  the 
isles,  among  the  hills,  on  forest  lands  and  up- 
lands, and  by  the  long  plains  and  valleys  of 
the  south,  the  September  blue — which  is  part 
a  flame  of  azure  and  part  a  haze  of  the  dust 
of  pearls — has  lain  over  land  and  sea  like  a 
benediction.  How  purple  the  western  moors, 
what  depths  of  floating  violet  and  pale  trans- 
lucencies  of  amethyst  on  the  transfigured 
mountains.  What  loveliness  of  pale  blue  mist 
in  the  hollows  of  quiet  valleys ;  what  richness 
of  reds  and  ambers  where  the  scarlet-fruited 
ash  hangs  over  the  unruffled  brown  pool; 
what  profuse  gold  and  ungathered  amber 
where  the  yellow  gorse  climbs  the  hillside  and 
the  armies  of  the  bracken  invade  every  windy 
solitude.  How  lovely  those  mornings  when 
the  dew  is  frost-white  and  the  gossamer  is 
myriad  in  intricate  interlacings  that  seem 
woven  of  aerial  diamond-dust.  What  peace 
in  that  vast  serenity  of  blue  where  not  the 
smallest  cloud  is  seen,  where  only  seaward  the 
gannet  may  hang  immeasurably  high  like  a 
winged  star,  or,  above  inland  pastures,  the 
windhover  poise  in  his  miraculous  suspense. 

But,  alas,  only  "  days."    It  has  not  been  the 
September  of  the  heart's  desire,  of  the  poet's 
dream.     The  advance-guard  of  the  equinox 
299 


September 

has  again  and  again  come  in  force :  the  grey 
wind  has  wailed  from  height  to  height,  and 
moaned  among  the  woods.  Even  in  the  gar- 
dens the  wall-fruits  have  hardly  given  the 
wonted  rich  warmth,  though  the  apples  have 
made  a  brave  show.  Yesterday  there  was  a 
hush  in  the  wind;  a  delicate  frost  lingered 
after  a  roseflusht  dawn ;  and  the  inward  light 
came  out  of  the  heather,  the  bracken  and  the 
gorse,  out  of  the  yellow  limes  and  the  amber 
planes  and  the  changing  oaks,  and  upon  the 
hillside  turned  the  great  pine  on  the  further 
crag  into  a  column  of  pale  gold  and  made  the 
lichened  boulders  like  the  half -sunken  gates 
of  buried  cities  of  topaz  and  jasper  and  chal- 
cedony. But  to-day  vast  masses  of  sombre 
cloud  have  been  swung  inland  from  the  At- 
lantic, and  the  gale  has  the  wild  mournful 
sough  that  we  look  for  in  the  dark  months. 
It  is  in  the  firelight  that  one  must  recapture 
September.  It  lies  hidden  in  that  warm  heart, 
amid  the  red  and  yellow  flowers  of  flame ;  and 
in  that  other  heart,  which,  also,  has  its  "  darke 
fyre,"  that  heart  in  whose  lands  lit  by  neither 
sun  nor  moon  are  the  secret  glens  where  old 
dreams  live  again,  and  where  the  dreams  of 
the  hour  are  radiant  in  their  new  wonder  and 
their  new  beauty. 

300 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  WIND  AND 
THE  CLAN  OF  PEACE 

I  was  abroad  on  the  moors  one  day  in  the 
company  of  a  shepherd,  and  we  were  talking 
of  the  lapwing  that  were  plentiful  there,  and 
were  that  day  wailing  continuously  in  an  un- 
easy wavering  flight.  I  had  seen  them  act 
thus,  in  this  excess  of  alarm,  in  this  pro- 
longed restless  excitement,  when  the  hill-fal- 
cons were  hovering  overhead  in  the  nesting 
season:  and,  again,  just  before  the  unloosen- 
ing of  wind  and  rain  and  the  sudden  fires  of 
the  thundercloud.  But  John  Logan  the  shep- 
herd told  me  that  now  it  was  neither  coming 
lightnings  nor  drifting  hawk  nor  eagle  that 
made  all  this  trouble  among  the  "  peewits." 
"  The  wind's  goin'  to  mak'  a  sudden  veer,"  he 
said — adding  abruptly  a  little  later,  "  an'  by 
the  same  token  we'll  have  rain  upon  us  soon." 

I  looked  at  the  cold  blue  of  the  sky,  and  at 
the  drift  of  the  few  clouds  trailing  out  of  the 
east  or  south-east,  and  could  see  no  sign  of 
any  change  of  wind  or  likelihood  of  rain. 

"  What  makes  you  think  that?  "  I  asked. 
301 


The  Children  of  Wind  and  the  Clan  of  Peace 

"  Weel,"  he  answered  literally,  "  I  don't 
think  it.  It's  the  peewits  an'  the  craws  that 
ken  swifter  than  oursels;  it's  they  that  tell, 
an'  I  think  they're  better  at  the  business  than 
thae  folk  wha  haver  awa'  in  the  papers,  an' 
are  sometimes  richt  because  they  canna  help 
it  an'  oftener  wrang  because  it's  maistly  guess- 
work." 

"  Well,  what  do  the  peewits  and  the  crows 
say? — though  I  haven't  seen  crow  or  rook  or 
corbie  for  the  last  hour." 

"  Thae  peewits  an'  a'  the  plovers  are  a'  the 
same.  If  the  win's  gaun  to  leap  out  of  the 
east  intae  the  sooth-wast,  or  slide  quickly  from 
the  north  intae  the  wast,  they'll  gang  on 
wheelin'  an'  wailin'  like  yon  for  an  hour  or 
mair,  an'  that  afore  there's  the  least  sign  o'  a 
change.  An'  as  for  the  craws  .  .  .  weel,  if 
ye  had  been  lookin'  up  a  wee  whilie  ago  ye'd 
'a  seen  a  baker's  dozen  go  by,  slantin'  on  the 
edge  o'  the  win',  like  boats  before  a  stiff 
breeze.  Aye,  an'  see  there!  .  .  .  there's  a 
wheen  mair  comin'  up  overhead." 

I  glanced  skyward,  and  saw  some  eight  or 
ten  rooks  flying  high  and  evidently  making  for 
the  mountain-range  about  two  miles  away  to 
our  left. 

"  D'ye  see  that  .  .  .  thae  falling  birds  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  noticing  a  singular  oc- 
302 


The  Children  of  Wind  and  the  Clan  o'f  Peace 

casional  fall  in  the  general  steady  flight,  as 
though  the  suddenly  wheeling  bird  had  been 
shot :  "  and  what  o'  that,  John  ?  " 

"It's  just  this:  when  ye  see  craws  flyin' 
steady  like  that  an'  then  yince  in  a  while 
drapping  oot  like  yon,  ye  may  tak'  it  as  mean- 
in'  there's  heavy  rain  no  that  great  way 
aff:  onyways,  when  ye  see  the  like  when  thae 
black  deils  are  fleein'  straight  for  the  hills,  ye 
maun  feel  sure  frae  the  double  sign  that  ye'll 
hae  a  good  chance  o'  being  drookit  afore  twa- 
three  hours." 

One  question  led  to  another,  and  I  heard 
much  crow  and  corbie  lore  from  John  Logan, 
some  of  it  already  familiar  to  me  and  some 
new  to  me  or  vaguely  half -known — as  the 
legend  that  the  corbies  or  ravens,  and  with 
them  all  the  crow-kind,  were  originally  white, 
but  at  the  time  of  the  Deluge  were  turned 
sooty-black  because  the  head  of  the  clan,  when 
sent  out  by  Noah  from  the  Ark,  did  not  re- 
turn, but  stayed  to  feed  on  the  bodies  of  the 
drowned.  "  So  the  blackness  of  death  was 
put  on  them,  as  my  old  mother  has  it  in  her 
own  Gaelic." 

"Your  old  mother,  John?"  I  queried  sur- 
prisedly :  "  I  did  not  know  you  had  any  one 
at  your  croft." 

"  Aye,  but  I  have  that,  though  she's  a  poor 

303 


The  Children  of  Wind  and  the  Clan  of  Peace 

frail  auld  body  an'  never  gangs  further  frae 
the  hoose  than  the  byre  an'  the  hen-yaird.  If 
ye  want  to  hear  more  aboot  thae  birds  an' 
the  auld  stories  forenenst  them,  she'd  mak' 
you  welcome,  an'  we'd  be  glad  an'  prood  to 
offer  ye  tea:  an'  I'll  just  tell  ye  this,  that  ye'll 
gie  her  muckle  pleasure  if  ye'll  hae  a  crack  wi' 
her  in  the  Gaelic,  an'  let  her  tell  her  auld  tales 
in't.  She's  Hielan',  ye  ken:  tho'  my  faither 
was  oot  o'  Forfar,  Glen  Isla  way.  She's 
never  got  hold  o'  the  English  yet  varra  weel, 
an'  to  my  sorrow  I've  never  learnt  the  auld 
tongue,  takin'  after  my  faither  in  that,  dour 
lowland  body  as  he  was.  I  ken  enough  to 
follow  her  sangs,  an'  a  few  words  forbye,  just 
enough  to  gie  us  a  change  as  ye  micht  say." 

I  gladly  accepted  the  shepherd's  courteous 
offer;  and  so  it  was  that  an  hour  later  we 
found  ourselves  at  Scaur-van,  as  his  croft 
was  called,  from  its  nearness  to  a  great 
bleached  crag  that  rose  out  of  the  heather  like 
a  light-ship  in  a  lonely  sea.  By  this  time,  his 
prognostications — or  those  rather  of  the 
wheeling  and  wailing  lapwings,  and  the  moun- 
tain-flying rooks — had  come  true.  Across 
the  wide  desolate  moors  a  grey  wind  soughed 
mournfully  from  the  south-west,  driving  be- 
fore it  long  slanting  rains  and  sheets  of  drift- 
ing mist.  I  was  glad  to  be  out  of  the  cold 

304 


The  Children  of  Wind  and  the  Clan  of  Peace 

wet,  and  in  the  warm  comfort  of  a  room  lit 
with  a  glowing  peat-fire  on  which  lay  one  or 
two  spurtling  logs  of  pine. 

A  dear  old  woman  rose  at  my  entrance.  I 
could  see  she  was  of  great  age,  because  her 
face  was  like  a  white  parchment  seamed  with 
a  myriad  of  wrinkles,  and  her  hands  were  so 
sere  and  thin  that  they  were  like  wan  leaves  of 
October.  But  she  was  fairly  active,  and  her 
eyes  were  clear — and  even,  if  the  expression 
may  be  used,  with  a  certain  quiet  fire  in  their 
core — and  her  features  were  comely,  with  a 
light  on  them  as  of  serene  peace.  The  old- 
fashioned  white  mutch  she  wore  enhanced  this 
general  impression,  and  I  remember  smiling  to 
myself  at  the  quaint  conceit  that  old  Mrs.  Lo- 
gan was  like  a  bed-spirit  of  ancient  slumber 
looking  out  from  an  opening  of  frilled  white 
curtains. 

It  was  pleasant  to  sit  and  watch  her,  as 
with  deft  hands  she  prepared  the  tea  and  laid 
on  the  table  scones  and  butter  and  grey  farrels 
of  oatcake,  while,  outside,  the  wet  wind 
moaned  and  every  now  and  then  a  swirl  of 
rain  splashed  against  the  narrow  panes  of  the 
window,  in  whose  inset,  stood  three  pots  of 
geranium  whose  scarlet  flowers  caught  the  red 
flicker  of  the  fire-flaucht  and  warmed  the  grey 
dusk  gathering  without. 

305 


The  Children  of  Wind  and  the  Clan  of  Peace 

Later,  we  began  to  speak  of  the  things  of 
which  her  son  John  and  I  had  talked  on  the 
moor:  and  then  of  much  else  in  connection 
with  the  legendary  lore  of  the  birds  and  beasts 
of  the  hills  and  high  moorlands. 

As  it  was  so  much  easier  for  her  (and  so 
far  more  vivid  and  idiomatic)  she  spoke  in 
Gaelic,  delighted  to  find  one  who  could  under- 
stand the  ancient  speech:  for  in  that  part  of 
the  country,  though  in  the  Highlands,  no 
Gaelic  is  spoken,  or  only  a  few  words  or 
phrases  connected  with  sport,  sheep-driving, 
and  the  like.  I  had  won  her  heart  by  saying 
to  her  soon  after  the  tea — up  to  which  time 
she  had  spoken  in  the  slow  and  calculated  but 
refined  Highland-English  of  the  north-west — 
Tha  mi  cinnteach  gu  bheil  sibh  aois  mhor  .  .  . 
"  I  am  sure  that  you  have  the  great  age  on 
you."  She  had  feared  that  because  I  had  "  the 
English  way  "  I  would  not  know,  or  remember, 
or  care  to  remember,  the  old  tongue :  and  she 
took  my  hand  and  stroked  it  while  she  said 
with  a  quiet  dignity  of  pleasure,  Is  taitneach 
learn  nach  'eil  'ur  Gaidhlig  air  meirgeadh  .  .  . 
(in  effect)  "  It  is  well  pleased  I  am  that  your 
Gaelic  has  not  become  rusty." 

It  was  after  the  tea-things  had  been  set 
aside,  and  old  Mrs.  Logan  had  said  reverently, 
larramaid  beannachadh  ("  Let  us  ask  a  bless- 
306 


The  Children  of  Wind  and  the  Clan  of  Peace 

mg")>  that  she  told  me,  among  other  legen- 
dary things  and  fragments  of  old  natural-his- 
tory folklore,  the  following  legend  (or  holy 
Christmas  tale,  as  she  called  it)  as  to  how  the 
first  crows  were  black  and  the  first  doves 
white. 

I  will  tell  it  as  simply  but  also  with  what 
beauty  I  can,  because  her  own  words,  which  I 
recall  only  as  the  fluctuating  remembrance 
from  a  dream  and  so  must  translate  from  the 
terms  of  dream  into  the  terms  of  prose, 
though  simple  were  beautiful  with  ancient 
idiom. 

Thus  she  began : — Feumaidh  sinn  dol  air 
ar  n'-ais  dluth  fichead  ceud  bliadhna,  which  is 
to  say,  "  We  must  go  back  near  two  thousand 
(lit:  twenty  hundred)  years." 

Yes,  it  is  nigh  upon  twenty  hundred  years 
that  we  must  go  back.  It  was  in  the  last 
month  of  the  last  year  of  the  seven  years' 
silence  and  peace.  When  would  that  be,  you 
ask?  Surely  what  other  would  it  be  than 
the  seven  holy  years  when  Jesus  the  Christ 
was  a  little  lad.  Do  you  not  remember  the 
lore  of  the  elders?  .  .  .  that  in  the  first  seven 
years  of  the  life  of  the  young  Christ  there 
was  peace  in  the  world,  and  that  the  souls  of 
men  were  like  souls  in  a  dream,  and  that  the 

307 


The  Children  of  Wind  and  the  Clan  of  Peace 

hearts  of  women  were  at  rest.  In  the  second 
seven  years  it  is  said  that  the  world  was  like 
an  adder  that  sloughs  its  skin:  for  there  was 
everywhere  a  troubled  sense  of  new  things  to 
come.  So  wide  and  far  and  deep  was  this, 
that  men  in  remote  lands  began  moving  across 
swamps  and  hills  and  deserts ;  that  the  wild 
beasts  shifted  their  lairs  and  moaned  and 
cried  in  new  forests  and  upon  untrodden 
plains;  that  the  storks  and  swallows  in  their 
migration  wearied  their  wings  in  high,  cold, 
untravelled  ways ;  that  the  narwhals  and  great 
creatures  of  the  deep  foamed  through  un- 
known seas;  that  the  grasses  of  the  world 
wandered  and  inhabited  hills;  that  many 
waters  murmured  in  the  wilderness  and  that 
many  waters  mysteriously  sank  from  pools 
and  wellsprings.  In  the  third  seven  years, 
men  even  on  the  last  ocean-girdled  shores 
were  filled  with  further  longing,  and  it  is  said 
that  new  stars  were  flung  into  the  skies  and 
ancient  stars  were  whirled  away,  like  dust  and 
small  stones  beneath  the  wheels  of  a  chariot. 
It  was  at  the  end  of  the  third  seven  years  that 
a  Face  looked  out  of  Heaven,  and  that  from 
the  edges  of  the  world  men  heard  a  confused 
and  dreadful  sound  rising  from  the  Abyss. 
Though  the  great  and  the  small  are  the  same, 
it  is  the  great  that  withdraws  from  remem- 
308 


The  Children  of  Wind  and  the  Clan  of  Peace 

brance  and  the  small  that  remains,  and  that 
may  be  why  men  have  grown  old  with  time, 
and  have  forgotten,  and  remember  only  the 
little  things  of  the  common  life:  as  that  in 
these  years  the  Herring  became  the  king  of 
all  fishes,  because  his  swift  gleaming  clan  car- 
ried the  rumour  of  great  tidings  to  the  utter- 
most places  of  ocean;  as  that  in  these  years 
the  little  fly  became  king  over  lions  and  pan- 
thers and  eagles  and  over  all  birds  and  beasts, 
because  it  alone  of  all  created  things  had  re- 
mained tameless  and  fearless ;  as  that  in  these 
years  the  wild-bees  were  called  the  clan  of 
wisdom,  because  they  carried  the  Word  to 
every  flower  that  grows  and  spread  the  ru- 
mour on  all  the  winds  of  the  world;  as  that 
in  these  years  the  Cuckoo  was  called  the  Her- 
ald of  God,  because  in  his  voice  are  heard  the 
bells  of  Resurrection. 

But,  as  I  was  saying,  it  was  in  the  last 
month  of  the  last  year  of  the  seven  years' 
silence  and  peace:  the  seventh  year  in  the 
mortal  life  of  Jesus  the  Christ.  It  was  on  the 
twenty-fifth  day  of  that  month,  the  day  of  His 
holy  birth. 

It  was  a  still  day.  The  little  white  flowers 
that  were  called  Breaths  of  Hope  and  that 
we  now  call  Stars  of  Bethlehem  were  so 
husht  in  quiet  that  the  shadows  of  moths  lay 

309 


The  Children  of  Wind  and  the  Clan  of  Peace 

on  them  like  the  dark  motionless  violet  in  the 
hearts  of  pansies.  In  the  long  swards  of 
tender  grass  the  multitude  of  the  daisies  were 
white  as  milk  faintly  stained  with  flusht  dews 
fallen  from  roses.  On  the  meadows  of  white 
poppies  were  long  shadows  blue  as  the  blue 
lagoons  of  the  sky  among  drifting  snow-white 
moors  of  cloud.  Three  white  aspens  on  the 
pastures  were  in  a  still  sleep:  their  tremulous 
leaves  made  no  rustle,  though  there  was  a 
soundless  wavering  fall  of  little  dusky 
shadows,  as  in  the  dark  water  of  a  pool  where 
birches  lean  in  the  yellow  hour  of  the  frostfire. 
Upon  the  pastures  were  ewes  and  lambs  sleep- 
ing, and  yearling  kids  opened  and  closed  their 
onyx  eyes  among  the  garths  of  white  clover. 

It  was  the  Sabbath,  and  Jesus  walked  alone. 
When  He  came  to  a  little  rise  in  the  grass  He 
turned  and  looked  back  at  the  house  where 
His  parents  dwelled.  Joseph  sat  on  a  bench, 
with  bent  shoulders,  and  was  dreaming  with 
fixt  gaze  into  the  west,  as  seamen  stare  across 
the  interminable  wave  at  the  pale  green  hori- 
zons that  are  like  the  grassy  shores  of  home. 
Mary  was  standing,  dressed  in  long  white  rai- 
ment, white  as  a  lily,  with  her  right  hand 
shading  her  eyes  as  she  looked  to  the  east, 
dreaming  her  dream. 

The  young  Christ  sighed,  but  with  the  love 
310 


The  Children  of  Wind  and  the  Clan  of  Peace 

of  all  love  in  His  heart.  "  So  shall  it  be  till 
the  day  of  days,"  He  said  aloud ;  "  even  so 
shall  the  hearts  of  men  dwell  among  shadows 
and  glories,  in  the  West  of  passing  things: 
even  so  shall  that  which  is  immortal  turn  to 
the  East  and  watch  for  the  coming  of  Joy 
through  the  Gates  of  Life." 

At  the  sound  of  His  voice  He  heard  a  sud- 
den noise  as  of  many  birds,  and  turned  and 
looked  beyond  the  low  upland  where  He  stood. 
A  pool  of  pure  water  lay  in  the  hollow,  fed 
by  a  ceaseless  wellspring,  and  round  it  and 
over  it  circled  birds  whose  breasts  were  grey 
as  pearl  and  whose  necks  shone  purple  and 
grass-green  and  rose.  The  noise  was  of  their 
wings,  for  though  the  birds  were  beautiful 
they  were  voiceless  and  dumb  as  flowers. 

At  the  edge  of  the  pool  stood  two  figures, 
whom  He  knew  to  be  of  the  angelic  world 
because  of  their  beauty,  but  who  had  on  them 
the  illusion  of  mortality  so  that  the  child  did 
not  know  them.  But  He  saw  that  one  was 
beautiful  as  Night,  and  one  beautiful  as 
Morning. 

He  drew  near. 

"  I  have  lived  seven  years,"  He  said,  "  and 
I  wish  to  send  peace  to  the  far  ends  of  the 
world." 

"  Tell  your  secret  to  the  birds,"  said  one. 


The  Children  of  Wind  and  the  Clan  of  Peace 

"  Tell  your  secret  to  the  birds,"  said  the 
other. 

So  Jesus  called  to  the  birds. 

"  Come,"  He  cried ;  and  they  came. 

Seven  came  flying  from  the  left,  from  the 
side  of  the  angel  beautiful  as  Night.  Seven 
came  flying  from  the  right,  from  the  side  of 
the  angel  beautiful  as  Morning. 

To  the  first  He  said :  "  Look  into  my 
heart." 

But  they  wheeled  about  him,  and  with  new- 
found voices  mocked,  crying,  "  How  could 
we  see  into  your  heart  that  is  hidden  "... 
and  mocked  and  derided,  crying,  "  What 
is  Peace!  .  .  .  Leave  us  alone!  Leave  us 
alone!" 

So  Christ  said  to  them : 

"  I  know  you  for  the  birds  of  Ahriman, 
who  is  not  beautiful  but  is  Evil.  Henceforth 
ye  shall  be  black  as  night,  and  be  children  of 
the  winds." 

To  the  seven  other  birds  which  circled 
about  Him,  voiceless,  and  brushing  their 
wings  against  His  arms,  He  cried: 

"  Look  into  my  heart." 

And  they  swerved  and  hung  before  Him  in 

a  maze  of  wings,  and  looked  into  His  pure 

heart:  and,  as  they  looked,  a  soft  murmurous 

sound  came  from  them,  drowsy-sweet,  full  of 

312 


The  Children  of  Wind  and  the  Clan  of  Peace 

peace :  and  as  they  hung  there  like  a  breath 
in  frost  they  became  white  as  snow. 

"  Ye  are  the  Doves  of  the  Spirit,"  said 
Christ,  "  and  to  you  I  will  commit  that  which 
ye  have  seen.  Henceforth  shall  your  plum- 
age be  white  and  your  voices  be  the  voices  of 
peace." 

The  young  Christ  turned,  for  He  heard 
Mary  calling  to  the  sheep  and  goats,  and  knew 
that  dayset  was  come  and  that  in  the  valleys 
the  gloaming  was  already  rising  like  smoke 
from  the  urns  of  the  twilight.  When  He 
looked  back  He  saw  by  the  pool  neither  the 
Son  of  Joy  nor  the  Son  of  Sorrow,  but  seven 
white  doves  were  in  the  cedar  beyond  the 
pool,  cooing  in  low  ecstasy  of  peace  and 
awaiting  through  sleep  and  dreams  the  rose- 
red  pathways  of  the  dawn.  Down  the  long 
grey  reaches  of  the  ebbing  day  He  saw  seven 
birds  rising  and  falling  on  the  wind,  black  as 
black  water  in  caves,  black  as  the  darkness  of 
night  in  the  old  pathless  woods. 

And  that  is  how  the  first  doves  became 
white,  and  how  the  first  crows  became  black 
and  were  called  by  a  name  that  means  the 
clan  of  darkness,  the  children  of  the  wind. 


313 


STILL  WATERS 

Perhaps  at  no  season  of  the  year  is  the 
beauty  of  still  waters  at  once  so  obvious  and 
so  ethereal  as  in  Autumn.  All  the  great 
painters  of  Nature  have  realised  this  crowning 
secret  of  their  delicate  loveliness.  Corot  ex- 
claimed to  a  friend  who  was  in  raptures  about 
one  of  his  midsummer  river  scenes  ..."  Yes, 
yes,  but  to  paint  the  soul  of  October,  voild,  mon 
ideal!"  Daubigny  himself,  that  master  of 
slow  winding  waters  and  still  lagoons,  declared 
that  if  he  had  to  be  only  one  month  out  of  his 
studio  it  would  have  to  be  October,  "  for  then 
you  can  surprise  Nature  when  she  is  dream- 
ing, then  you  may  learn  her  most  evanescent 
and  most  exquisite  secrets."  And  our  own 
Millais,  when  he  was  painting  "  Chill  October  " 
near  Murthly,  in  Perthshire,  wrote  that  noth- 
ing had  ever  caused  him  so  much  labour,  if 
nothing  had  ever  given  him  so  much  pleasure, 
in  the  painting,  "  for  Nature  now  can  be  found 
in  a  trance,  and  you  can  see  her  as  she  is."  A 
friend  of  the  late  Keeley  Halswelle  told  me 
that  this  able  artist  (who  was  originally  a 


Still  Waters 

"  figure  "  and  "  subject  "  painter)  remarked  to 
him  that  he  had  never  realised  the  supreme 
charm  of  autumnal  Nature  among  still  waters 
till  he  found  himself  one  day  trying  to  trans- 
late to  his  canvas  the  placid  loveliness  of  the 
wide,  shallow  reaches  of  the  Avon  around 
Christchurch.  Doubtless  many  other  painters, 
French  and  Dutch  and  English,  have  felt  thus, 
and  been  glad  to  give  their  best  to  the  inter- 
pretation of  the  supreme  charm  of  still  waters 
in  autumn.  What  would  Venice  be  without 
them  .  .  .  Amsterdam  .  .  .  Holland  .  .  . 
Finland  .  .  .  Sweden?  Imagine  Scotland 
without  this  water-beauty,  from  Loch  Ken  to 
Loch  Maree,  from  the  Loch  of  the  Yowes  to 
the  "  thousand-waters  "  of  Benbecula :  or  Ire- 
land, where  the  white  clouds  climbing  out  of 
the  south  may  mirror  themselves  in  still  waters 
all  day  till  they  sink  beyond  the  Lough  of 
Shadows  in  the  silent  north. 

The  phrase  is  as  liberal  as  "  running  water." 
That  covers  all  inland  waters  in  motion,  from 
the  greatest  rivers  to  the  brown  burn  of  the 
hillside,  from  the  melting  of  the  snows  in 
fierce  spate  to  the  swift  invasion  and  troubled 
floods  of  the  hurrying  and  confined  tides.  So 
"  still  waters "  covers  lakes  and  mountain- 
lochs,  shallow  meres,  lagoons,  the  reaches  of 
slow  rivers,  lochans,  tarns,  the  dark,  brown 

315 


Still  Waters 

pools  in  peat-moors,  or  the  green-blue  pools 
in  open  woods  and  shadowy  forests,  the  duck- 
weed-margined ponds  at  the  skirts  of  villages, 
the  lilied  ponds  of  old  manor-garths  and  of 
quiet  gardens,  asleep  beneath  green  canopies 
or  given  over  to  the  golden  carp  and  the 
dragon-fly  beneath  mossed  fountains  or  be- 
yond time-worn  terraces.  Often,  too,  and  in 
February  and  October  above  all,  the  low-lying 
lands  are  flooded,  and  the  bewildered  little 
lives  of  the  pastures  crowd  the  hedgerows  and 
copses.  Sometimes  for  days,  motionless, 
these  mysterious  lake-arrivals  abide  under  the 
grey  sky,  sometimes  a  week  or  weeks  pass  be- 
fore they  recede.  The  crow  flying  home  at 
dusk  sees  the  pale  cloud  and  the  orange  after- 
glow reflected  in  an  inexplicable  mirror  where 
of  late  the  grey-green  grass  and  brown  fur- 
row stretched  for  leagues :  the  white  owl, 
hawking  the  pastures  after  dusk,  swoops  so 
low  on  his  silent  wings  that  he  veers  upward 
from  a  ghostly  flying  image  underneath,  as  a 
bat  at  sundown  veers  from  the  phantom  of  its 
purblind  flight. 

Delicate  haze,  cloud-dappled  serenity,  and 
moonlight  are  the  three  chief  qualities  of 
beauty  in  the  charm  of  still  waters.  It  is  a 
matter  of  temperament,  of  the  hour  and  occa- 
sion also  no  doubt,  whether  one  prefer  those 

316 


Still  Waters 

where  another  dream-world,  that  of  human 
life,  companions  them  in  the  ineffable  suspense 
of  the  ideal  moment,  the  moment  where  the 
superfluous  recedes  and  silence  and  stillness 
consummate  the  miraculous  vision.  Those 
moonlit  lagoons  of  Venice,  which  become 
scintillating  floods  of  silver  or  lakes  of  deli- 
cate gold,  where  the  pole-moored  sandold 
thrusts  a  black  wedge  of  shadow  into  the  mo- 
tionless drift,  while  an  obscure  figure  at  the 
prow  idly  thrums  a  mandolin  or  hums  drow- 
sily a  consonnetto  d'amore;  those  twilit  canals 
where  old  palaces  lean  and  look  upon  their 
ancient  beauty  stilled  and  perfected  in  sleep ; 
how  unforgettable  they  are,  how  they  thrill 
even  in  remembrance.  In  the  cities  of  Hol- 
land, how  at  one  are  the  old  houses  with  the 
mirroring  canals,  in  still  afternoons  when 
quiet  light  warms  the  red  wall,  and  dwells  on 
the  brown  and  scarlet  clematis  in  the  cool  vio- 
let and  amber  hollows  of  the  motionless  water 
wherein  the  red  wall  soundlessly  slips  and  in- 
definitely recedes,  hiding  an  undiscovered 
house  of  shadow  with  silent  unseen  folk 
dreaming  out  across  invisible  gardens.  There 
are  ancient  towns  like  this  in  England  also, 
as  between  Upsala  and  Elsinore  to  where 
old  chateaux  in  Picardy  guard  the  pollarded 
marais,  or  deserted  Breton  manoirs  stand 

317 


Still  Waters 

ghostly    at    the    forest-end    of    untraversed 
meres. 

These  have  their  charm.  But  have  they 
for  us  the  intimate  and  unchanging  spell  of 
the  lakes  and  meres  and  other  still  waters  of 
our  own  land?  Nothing,  one  might  think, 
could  be  more  beautiful  than  to  see  in  the 
Lake  of  Como  the  cypresses  of  Bellaggio  and 
the  sloping  gardens  of  Cadenabbia  meeting  in 
a  new  underwater  wonderland :  or  to  see 
Mont  Blanc,  forty  miles  away,  sleeping  in 
snow-held  silence  in  the  blue  depths  of  Lac 
Leman:  or  to  see  Pilatus  and  a  new  city  of 
Lucerne  mysteriously  changed  and  yet  famil- 
iarly upbuilded  among  the  moving  green 
lawns  and  azure  avenues  of  the  Lake  of  the 
Four  Cantons.  And  yet  leaning  boulders  of 
granite,  yellow  with  lichen  and  grey  with 
moss  and  deep-based  among  swards  of  heather 
and  the  green  nomad  bracken,  will  create  a 
subtler  magic  in  the  brown  depths  of  any 
Highland  loch.  There  is  a  subtler  spell  in 
the  solitary  tarn,  where  the  birch  leans  out  of 
the  fern  and  throws  an  intricate  tracery  of 
bough  and  branch  into  the  unmoving  wave, 
where  the  speckled  trout  and  the  speckled 
mavis  meet  as  in  the  strange  companionships 
of  dreams.  Enchantment  lies  amid  the  emer- 
ald glooms  of  pine  and  melancholy  spruce, 


Still  Waters 

when  a  dream-world  forest  underneath  mir- 
rors the  last  sunset-gold  on  bronze  cones,  and 
enfolds  the  one  white  wandering  cloud  mirac- 
ulously stayed  at  last  between  two  columnar 
green  spires,  flawless  as  sculptured  jade. 

Is  this  because,  in  the  wilderness,  we  re- 
cover something  of  what  we  have  lost?  .  .  . 
because  we  newly  find  ourselves,  as  though 
surprised  into  an  intimate  relationship  of 
which  we  have  been  unaware  or  have  indif- 
ferently ignored?  What  a  long  way  the  an- 
cestral memory  has  to  go,  seeking,  like  a  pale 
sleuth-hound  among  obscure  dusks  and  for- 
gotten nocturnal  silences,  for  the  lost  trails 
of  the  soul.  It  is  not  we  only,  you  and  I,  who 
look  into  the  still  waters  of  the  wilderness  and 
lonely  places,  and  are  often  dimly  perplext, 
are  often  troubled  we  know  not  how  or  why : 
some  forgotten  reminiscence  in  us  is  aroused, 
some  memory  not  our  own  but  yet  our  herit- 
age is  perturbed,  footsteps  that  have  imme- 
morially  sunk  in  ancient  dust  move  furtively 
along  obscure  corridors  in  our  brain,  the  an- 
cestral hunter  or  fisher  awakes,  the  primitive 
hillman  or  woodlander  communicates  again 
with  old  forgotten  intimacies  and  the  secret 
oracular  things  of  lost  wisdoms.  This  is  no 
fanciful  challenge  of  speculation.  In  the  or- 
der of  psychology  it  is  as  logical  as  in  the 

319 


Still  Waters 

order  of  biology  is  the  tracing  of  our  upright 
posture  or  the  deft  and  illimitable  use  of  our 
hands,  from  unrealisably  remote  periods 
wherein  the  pioneers  of  man  reached  slowly 
forward  to  inconceivable  arrivals. 

But  whatever  primitive  wildness,  whatever 
ancestral  nearness  we  recover  in  communion 
with  remote  Nature,  there  is  no  question  as 
to  the  fascination  of  beauty  exercised  by  the 
still  waters  of  which  we  speak,  of  their  en- 
during spell.  What  lovelier  thing  in  Nature 
than,  on  a  serene  and  cloudless  October  day, 
to  come  upon  a  small  lake  surrounded  by  tall 
elms  of  amber  and  burnished  bronze,  by  beech 
and  maple  and  sycamore  cloudy  with  superb 
fusion  of  orange  and  scarlet  and  every  shade 
of  red  and  brown,  by  limes  and  aspens  tremu- 
lous with  shaken  pale  gold?  Beautiful  in  it- 
self, in  rare  and  dreamlike  beauty,  the  woods 
become  more  beautiful  in  this  silent  marriage 
with  placid  waters,  take  on  a  beauty  more 
rare,  a  loveliness  more  dreamlike.  There  is 
a  haze  which  holds  the  fluent  gold  of  the  air. 
Silence  is  no  longer  quietude  as  in  June;  or  a 
hushed  stillness,  as  in  the  thunder-laden  noons 
of  July  or  August;  but  a  soundless  suspense 
wherein  the  spirit  of  the  world,  suddenly  at 
rest,  sleeps  and  dreams. 

The  same  ineffable  peace  broods  over  all 
320 


Still  Waters 

still  waters :  on  the  meres  of  Hereford,  on  the 
fens  of  East  Anglia,  on  lochs  heavy  with 
mountain-shadow,  on  the  long  grey  Hebridean 
sheets  where  the  call  of  the  sea-wind  or  the 
sea-wave  is  ever  near. 

Truly  there  must  be  a  hidden  magic  in 
them,  as  old  tales  tell.  I  recall  one  where  the 
poets  and  dreamers  of  the  world  are  called 
"  the  children  of  pools."  The  poet  and 
dreamer  who  so  called  them  must  have  meant 
by  his  metaphor  those  who  look  into  the 
hearts  of  men  and  into  the  dim  eyes  of  Life, 
troubled  by  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the 
world,  insatiable  in  longing  for  the  ineffable 
and  the  unattainable.  So,  long  ago,  even 
"  ornamental  waters  "  may  have  been  symbols 
of  the  soul's  hunger  and  thirst,  emblems  of 
the  perpetual  silence  and  mystery  of  his  fugi- 
tive destiny! 

Somewhere,  I  think  it  is  in  the  Kalevala, 
occurs  the  beautiful  metaphor  of  still  waters, 
"  the  mirrors  of  the  world."  Whoever  the  an- 
cient singer  was  who  made  the  phrase,  he  had 
in  his  heart  love  for  still  waters  as  well  as  the 
poet's  mind.  The  secret  of  their  beauty  is  in 
that  image.  It  may  be  a  secret  within  a 
secret,  for  the  mirror  may  disclose  a  world 
invisible  to  us,  may  reflect  what  our  own  or 
an  ancestral  memory  dimly  recalls,  may  reveal 
321 


Still  Waters 

what  the  soul  perceives  and  translates  from 
its  secret  silences  into  symbol  and  the  myster- 
ious speech  of  the  imagination. 

Still  Waters;  it  has  the  inward  music  that 
lies  in  certain  words  .  .  .  amber,  ivory,  foam, 
silence,  dreams;  that  lies  often  in  some  mar- 
riage of  words  .  .  .  moonlight  at  sea,  wind  in 
dark  woods,  dewy  pastures,  old  sorrowful 
things:  that  dwells  in  some  names  of  things, 
as  chrysoprase;  or  in  some  combination  of 
natural  terms  and  associations,  as  wind  and 
wave;  or  in  some  names  of  women  and 
dreams,  Ruth,  Alaciel,  Imogen,  Helen,  Cleo- 
patra ;  or  in  the  words  that  serve  in  the  courts 
of  music  .  .  .  cadence,  song,  threnody,  epi- 
thalamium,  viol,  flute,  prelude,  fugue.  One  can 
often  evade  the  heavy  airs  of  the  hours  of 
weariness  by  the  spell  of  one  of  these  wooers 
of  dreams.  Foam — and  the  hour  is  gathered 
up  like  mist,  and  we  are  amid  "  perilous  seas 
in  faery  lands  forlorn " :  Wind — and  the 
noises  of  the  town  are  like  the  humming  of 
wild  bees  in  old  woods,  and  one  is  under  an- 
cient boughs,  listening,  or  standing  solitary  in 
the  dusk  by  a  forlorn  shore  with  a  tempestu- 
ous sea  filling  the  darkness  with  whispers  and 
confused  rumours  and  incommunicable  things : 
Ruth — and  sorrow  and  exile  are  become  love- 
liness: Helen — and  that  immemorial  desire  is 
322 


Still  Waters 

become  our  desire,  and  that  phantom  beauty 
is  become  our  dream  and  our  passion.  Still 
Waters — surely  through  that  gate  the  mind 
may  slip  away  from  the  tedious  and  unwel- 
come, and  be  alone  among  forests  where  the 
birch  leans  and  dreams  into  an  amber-brown 
pool,  or  by  a  mountain-lake  where  small  white 
clouds  lie  like  sleeping  birds,  or  on  moonlit 
lagoons  where  the  reed  and  the  reed's  image 
are  as  one,  and  the  long  mirrors  are  unshaken 
by  any  wandering  air,  unvisited  but  by  the 
passing  soundless  shadows  of  travelling  wings. 


323 


THE    PLEIAD-MONTH 

From  the  Persian  shepherd  to  the  shepherd 
on  the  hills  of  Argyll — in  a  word,  from  the 
remote  East  to  the  remote  West — November 
is  known,  in  kindred  phrase,  as  the  Pleiad- 
Month. 

What  a  world  of  legend,  what  a  greater 
world  of  poetry  and  old  romance,  centres  in 
this  little  group  of  stars.  "  The  meeting-place 
in  the  skies  of  mythology  and  science,"  as  they 
have  been  called  by  one  of  our  chief  astrono- 
mers. From  time  immemorial  this  remote 
starry  cluster  has  been  associated  with  festi- 
vals and  solemnities,  with  auguries  and  des- 
tinies. On  November  17,  the  day  of  the  mid- 
night culmination  of  the  Pleiades,  the  great 
Festival  of  Isis  was  begun  at  Busiris :  in 
ancient  Persia,  on  that  day,  no  petition  was 
presented  in  vain  to  the  King  of  Kings :  and 
on  the  first  of  the  month  the  midnight  rites 
of  our  own  ancestral  Druids  were  connected 
with  the  rising  of  the  Pleiades.  To-day  the 
South  Sea  Islanders  of  the  Society  and  Tonga 
Isles  divide  the  year  by  their  seaward  rising 

324 


The  Pleiad-Month 

and  setting.  The  Matarii  i  nia,  or  season  of 
the  "  Pleiades  Above,"  begins  when  in  the 
evening  this  stellar  group  appears  on  the  hori- 
zon, and  while  they  remain  above  it:  the 
Matarii  i  raro,  or  season  of  the  "  Pleiades  Be- 
low," begins  when  after  sunset  they  are  no 
longer  visible,  and  endures  till  once  again  they 
appear  above  the  horizon.  The  most  spiritual 
and  the  most  barbaric  races  are  at  one  in  con- 
sidering them  centres  of  the  divine  energy. 
The  Hindus  imaged  them  as  Flame,  typical  of 
Agni,  God  of  Fire,  the  Creative  Energy:  the 
several  Persian  words,  from  the  ancient  Perv 
or  the  Parur  of  Hafiz  or  the  Parwin  of  Omar 
Khayyam — derive  from  Peru,  a  word  signify- 
ing "  The  Begetters  " :  and  we  know  that  the 
Greeks  oriented  to  them  or  to  their  lucida  not 
only  the  first  great  temple  of  Athene  on  the 
Acropolis,  but  its  successor  four  hundred  years 
later,  the  Hecatompedon  of  1150  B.  c.,  and 
seven  hundred  years  later  the  Parthenon  on 
the  same  side.  [The  great  shrine  of  Diony- 
sos  at  Athens,  the  still  earlier  Asclepieion  at 
Epidaurus,  and  the  temple  of  P.oseidon  at 
Sunium,  looked  towards  the  Pleiades  at  their 
setting.]  But  far  removed  from  these  are  the 
Malays  and  Pacific  islanders,  who  more 
vaguely  and  crudely  revere  "  the  central 
fires,"  and  even  so  primitive  and  remote  a 


The  Pleiad-Month 

people  as  the  Abipones  of  the  Paraguay  River 
country  worship  them  as  their  Great  Spirit 
— Groapcrikie,  or  Grandfather — and  chant 
hymns  of  joy  to  this  Pleiad-Allfather  when, 
after  the  vernal  Equinox,  the  mysterious  clus- 
ter once  more  hangs  visible  in  the  northern 
sky. 

It  would  be  impossible,  in  a  brief  paper,  to 
cover  the  ground  of  the  nomenclature,  of  the 
literature,  of  scientific  knowledge  and  specula- 
tion concerning  the  Pleiades.  A  long  chap- 
ter in  a  book  might  be  given  to  Alcyone  alone 
— that  bright  particular  star  of  which  it  has 
been  calculated  that,  in  comparison,  our  Sun 
would  sink  to  a  star  below  the  tenth  magni- 
tude. Indeed,  though  the  imagination  strains 
after  the  astronomer's  calm  march  with  daz- 
zled vision,  our  solar  brilliancy  is  supposed  to 
be  surpassed  by  some  sixty  to  seventy  of  the 
Pleiadic  group,  for  all  that  our  human  eyes 
have  from  time  immemorial  seen  therein  only 
a  small  cluster  of  tiny  stars,  the  "  seven  "  of 
Biblical  and  poetic  and  legendary  lore,  from 
"  the  Seven  Archangels  "  to  the  popular  "  Hen 
and  her  six  chicks."  Alcyone,  that  terrible 
torch  of  the  ultimate  heavens,  is  eighty-three 
times  more  refulgent  than  that  magnificent 
star  Sirius,  which  has  been  called  the  "  Glory 
of  the  South  " :  a  thousand  times  larger  than 
326 


The  Pleiad-Month 

our  Sun.  I  do  not  know  how  Merope  and 
Taygeta,  Celeno  and  Atlas  are,  but  Maia, 
that  shaking  loveliness  of  purest  light,  has 
been  calculated  to  be  four  hundred  times  larg- 
er than  the  Sun,  and  Electra  about  four 
hundred  and  eighty  times  larger.  When  one 
thinks  of  this  mysterious  majesty,  so  vast  that 
only  the  winged  imagination  can  discern  the 
illimitable  idea,  all  words  fail :  at  most  one 
can  but  recall  the  solemn  adjuration  of  the 
shepherd-prophet  Amos,  "  Seek  Him  that 
makcth  Pleiades  and  Orion,"  or  the  rapt  ecs- 
tasy of  Isaiah,  "  O  day  star,  son  of  the  morn- 
ing." 

A  Gaelic  poet  has  called  them  the  Lords 
of  Water,  saying  (though  under  different 
names,  from  the  Gaelic  mythology)  that 
Alcyone  controls  the  seas  and  the  tides,  that 
Electra  is  mistress  of  flood,  that  Taygeta  and 
Merope  and  Atlas  dispense  rains  and  augment 
rivers  and  feed  the  well-springs,  and  that 
Maia's  breath  falls  in  dew.  The  detail  is 
fanciful ;  the  central  thought  is  in  accord  with 
legend  and  old  wisdom.  I  do  not  know  how 
far  back  the  connection  of  the  Pleiades  with 
water,  particularly  rains  and  the  rising  of 
rivers,  has  been  traced.  It  runs  through 
many  ancient  records.  True,  in  one  place, 
Hesiod  speaks  of  "  retreating  from  the  burn- 

327 


The  Pleiad-Month 

ing  heat  of  the  Pleiades,"  and  mention  has  al- 
ready been  made  of  the  Hindu  association  of 
them  with  "  Flame."  But  Hesiod's  allusion  is 
a  seasonal  trope,  and  natural  to  one  living  in 
a  warm  country  where  the  coming  of  the 
autumnal  rains  coincides  with  days  of  swelter- 
ing closeness  and  heat.  Moreover,  Hesiod 
himself  uses  equally  deftly  other  popular  im- 
agery as  it  occurs  to  him,  speaking  of  the 
Pleiades,  as  Homer  speaks,  as  Atlas-born ;  and 
again  (with  Pindar,  Simonides  and  others) 
likening  them  to  rock-pigeons  flying  from  the 
Hunter  Orion,  doubtless  from  earliest  mention 
of  them  in  ancient  legend  as  a  flock  of  doves, 
or  birds ;  and  again  as  "  the  Seven  Virgins  " 
and  "  the  Virgin  stars  " — thus  at  one  with  his 
contemporary,  the  Hebrew  Herdsman-prophet 
Amos,  who  called  them  by  a  word  rendered 
in  the  Authorised  Version  of  the  Bible  as  "  the 
seven  stars."  As  for  the  Hindu  symbol,  it 
must  be  remembered  that  fire  was  the  supreme 
sacred  and  primitive  element,  and  that  every 
begetter  of  life  in  any  form  would  naturally 
be  thus  associate.  The  Hindus  called  the 
Pleiad-Month  (October-November)  Kartik, 
and  the  reason  of  the  great  star- festival 
Dlbali,  the  Feast  of  Lamps,  was  to  show  grat- 
itude and  joy,  after  the  close  of  the  wet  sea- 
son, for  the  coming  of  the  Pleiad-days  of  dry 
328 


The  Pleiad-Month 

warmth  and  beauty.  The  "  sweet  influences  " 
of  the  Pleiades  thus  indicated  will  come  more 
familiarly  to  many  readers  in  Milton's 

"the  grey 

Dawn  and  the  Pleiades  before  him  danc'd, 
Shedding  sweet  influence,  ..." 

This  ancient  custom,  the  "  Feast  of  Lamps," 
of  the  Western  Hindus  survives  to-day  in  the 
"  Feast  of  Lanterns  "  in  Japan,  though  few 
Europeans  seem  to  perceive  any  significance 
in  that  popular  festival. 

In  general,  however,  we  find  the  advent  of 
the  Pleiades  concurrent,  both  in  ancient  and 
modern  tradition,  with  springs  and  rains  and 
floods:  with  the  renewal  of  life.  Thus  the 
comment  in  the  old  Breeches  Bible,  opposite 
the  mention  of  "  the  mystic  seven  "  in  that 
supreme  line  in  Job :  "  which  starres  arise 
when  the  sunne  is  in  Taurus,  which  is  the 
spring  time,  and  bring  flowres."  A  Latin  poet, 
indeed,  used  Pliada  as  a  synonym  of  showers. 
Again  and  again  we  find  them  as  the  Vergi- 
liae,  Companions  of  the  Spring.  They  are 
intimately  connected  too  with  traditions  of  the 
Deluge:  and  in  this  association,  perhaps  also 
with  that  of  submerged  Atlantis,  it  is  sugges- 
tive to  note  that  early  in  the  sixteenth  century 
Cortez  heard  in  that  remote,  mysterious  Aztec 

329 


The  Pleiad-Month 

otherworld  to  which  he  penetrated,  a  very 
ancient  tradition  of  the  destruction  of  the 
world  in  some  past  age  at  the  time  of  their 
midnight  culmination.  A  long  way  thence  to 
Sappho,  who  marked  the  middle  of  the  night 
by  the  setting  of  those  wild-doves  of  the  sky ! 
Or,  a  century  later,  to  Euripides,  who  calls 
them  Aetos,  our  "  Altair,"  the  nocturnal  time- 
keepers. 

But  to  return  to  that  mystery  of  seven. 
Although  some  scholars  derive  the  word 
"  Pleiades  "  or  "  Pliades,"  and  in  the  singular 
"  Plias,"  from  the  Greek  word  plein,  "  to 
sail,"  because  (to  quote  an  eminent  living  au- 
thority) "  the  heliacal  rising  of  the  group  in 
May  marked  the  opening  of  navigation  to  the 
Greeks,  as  its  setting  in  the  late  autumn  did 
the  close  " — and  though  others  consider  that 
the  derivation  is  from  pleios,  the  epic  form  of 
the  Greek  word  for  "  full,"  or,  in  the  plural, 
"  many  " — and  so  to  the  equivalent  "  a  clus- 
er,"  corresponding  to  the  Biblical  Kimah 
and  the  Arabic  Al  Thuruyya,  the  Cluster,  the 
Many  Little  Ones — it  is  perhaps  more  likely 
that  a  less  learned  and  ordinary  classical 
reader  may  be  nearer  the  mark  in  considering 
the  most  probable  derivation  to  be  from  Plei- 
one,  the  nympth  of  Greek  mythology — "  Plei- 
one,  the  mother  of  the  seven  sisters,"  as  she 

330 


The  Pleiad-Month 

was  called  of  old.  Such  an  one,  too,  may  re- 
member that  certain  Greek  poets  alluded  to 
the  Pleiades  as  the  seven  doves  that  carried 
ambrosia  to  the  infant  Zeus.1  To  this  day, 
indeed,  a  common  English  designation  for  the 
group  is  "  the  Seven  Sisters  " :  and  lovers  of 
English  poetry  will  hardly  need  to  be  reminded 
of  kindred  allusions,  from  Chaucer's  "  Atlan- 
tes  doughtres  seven  "  to  Milton's  "  the  seven 
Atlantic  sisters  "  (reminiscent  here,  of  course, 
of  Virgil's  "  Eose  Atlantides  ")  or  to  Keats' 
"  The  Starry  Seven,  old  Atlas'  children."  The 
mediaeval  Italians  had  "  the  seven  doves  "  again 
(sette  palommiele) ,  and  to-day  their  compat- 
riots speak  of  the  "  seven  dovelets."  It  would 
be  tiresome  to  go  through  the  popular  Pleiad- 
nomenclature  of  all  the  European  races,  and  a 
few  instances  will  equally  indicate  the  preva- 
lence, since  the  Anglo-Saxon  sifunsterri. 
Miles  Coverdale,  in  the  first  complete  English 
Bible,  comments  on  the  passage  in  Job,  "  these 

1  On  reading  recently  a  work  on  mythological  or- 
nithology by  Mr.  D'Arcy  Thompson  I  noticed  that  he 
traces  the  word  Botrus,  equivalent  to  a  Bunch  of 
Grapes  (as  the  younger  Theon  likened  the  Pleiades) 
olvds,  a  dove,  so  called  from  its  purple-red  breast  like 
wine,  olvoi,  and  naturally  referred  to  a  bunch  of 
grapes ;  or  perhaps  because  the  bird  appeared  in  mi- 
gration at  the  time  of  the  Vintage.  [And  see  his 
further  evidence  of  Cilician  coins.] 

331 


The  Pleiad-Month 

vii.  starres,  the  clocke  henne  with  her 
chickens  " ;  and  to-day  in  Dorset,  Devon,  and 
other  English  counties  "  the  Hen  and  her 
Chickens  "  is  a  popular  term,  as  it  is,  in  effect, 
with  the  Wallachians,  and  indeed,  with  or 
without  the  number  seven,  throughout  Europe. 
The  long  continuity  and  vast  range  of  this 
association  with  seven  may  be  traced  from  the 
ancient  Celtic  "  The  Seven  Hounds  "  to  the 
still  more  ancient  "  seven  beneficent  sky-spirits 
of  the  Vedas  and  the  Zend-Avesta  "  or  to  the 
again  more  ancient  "  Seven  Sisters  of  Indus- 
try "  of  remote  Chinese  folklore.  This  femi- 
nine allusion  in  presumably  the  oldest  mention 
of  a  popular  designation  for  the  Pleiades  is 
the  more  singular  from  the  kindred  thought 
of  the  Roman  writer  Manilius — "  The  narrow 
Cloudy  Train  of  female  stars  "...  i.e.,  no 
doubt,  Pleione  and  her  daughters. 

Nor,  again,  is  it  possible  to  record  the  many 
picturesque  or  homely  Pleiad-designations, 
ancient  and  modern,  in  literature  and  folklore. 
What  range,  indeed,  to  cover  .  .  .  since  we 
should  have  to  go  back  to  two  thousand  years 
B.C.  to  recover  that  fine  name,  General  of  the 
Celestial  Armies!  It  would  be  tempting  to 
range  through  the  poets  of  all  lands.  Think 
of  such  lovely  words  as  those  from  the 
Mu'allakat,  as  translated  by  Sir  William 

332 


The  Pleiad-Month 

Jones :  "  It  was  the  hour  when  the  Pleiades 
appeared  in  the  firmament  like  the  folds  of  a 
silken  sash  variously  decked  with  gems  " :  or 
that  line  in  Graf's  translation  of  Sadi's  Gulis- 
tan  .  .  .  "  as  though  the  tops  of  the  trees  were 
encircled  by  the  necklace  of  the  Pleiades  " :  or, 
of  our  own  day,  of  a  verse  such  as  Roscoe 
Thayer's : 

"slowly  the  Pleiades 

Dropt  like  dew  from  bough  to  bough  of  the  cinna- 
mon trees," 

or  lines  such  as  that  familiar  but  ever  beauti- 
ful couplet  in  Locksley  Hall: 

"Many  a  night  I  saw  the  Pleiads,  rising  thro'  the 

mellow  shade, 

Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  fireflies  tangled  in  a  silver 
braid." 

As  for  many  of  the  names,  what  store  of  old 
thought  and  legend  they  enshrine.  "  Seamen's 
starres "  our  own  King  Jamie  called  them, 
after  the  popular  use.  The  Finns  call  them 
"  the  Sieve,"  and  the  Provencals  "  the  mos- 
quito net,"  and  the  Italians  "  the  Battledore." 
With  the  nomad  Arabs  they  are  "  the  Herd 
of  Camels."  Peoples  so  apart  as  the  ancient 
Arabians,  the  Algerian  Berbers  of  to-day,  and 
the  Dyaks  of  Borneo,  have  placed  in  them  the 

333 


The  Pleiad-Month 

seat  of  immortality.  Races  as  widely  severed 
as  the  Hebridean  Gaels  and  certain  Indian 
tribes  have  called  them  "  the  Dancers " :  to 
the  Solomon  Islanders  they  are  "  a  group  of 
girls,"  and  (strange,  among  so  primitive  and 
savage  a  race)  the  Australian  aborigines 
thought  of  them  as  "  Young  Girls  playing  to 
Young  Men  dancing."  There  is  perhaps  no 
stranger  name  than  our  Gaelic  Crannarain 
(though  Grioglachan  or  Meanmnach  is  more 
common),  i.e.,  the  baker's  peel  or  shovel,  from 
an  old  legend  about  a  Baker  and  his  wife  and 
six  daughters,  itself  again  related  to  a  singu- 
lar Cuckoo  myth. 

But  an  end  to  this  long  excerpting  from 
"  starry  notes  " !  In  a  later  chapter,  too,  I 
propose  to  write  of  "  Winter  Stars,"  and  the 
Great  Bear,  and  Orion,  and  the  Milky  Way — 
and  I  must  take  warning  in  time  to  condense 
better  and  write  "  more  soothly  "  as  Chaucer 
has  it.  So,  now,  let  me  end  with  a  quotation 
from  Mr.  D'Arcy  Thompson's  preface  to  his 
Greek  Birds,  to  which  I  have  alluded  in  a 
footnote.  "  As  the  White  Doves  came  from 
Babylon  or  the  Meleagrian  Birds  from  the 
further  Nile,  so  over  the  sea  and  the  islands 
came  Eastern  legends  and  Eastern  names. 
And  our  Aryan  studies  must  not  blind  us  to 
the  presence  in  an  Aryan  tongue  of  these  im- 

334 


The  Pleiad-Month 

migrants  from  Semitic  and  Egyptian  speech, 
or  from  the  nameless  and  forgotten  language 
that  was  spoken  by  the  gods." 

Food  for  thought  there,  and  in  many  of  the 
other  alluded-to  clues  of  old  forgotten  faiths 
and  peoples,  for  the  Pleiad-Month! 

What  ages,  what  rise  and  fall  of  kingdoms 
and  great  empires,  since  the  Arabian  shepherd 
looked  up  from  the  illimitable  desert  and  called 
this  dim  cluster,  this  incalculable  congregation 
of  majesty  and  splendour,  Al  Najm,  "  the 
Constellation  "  .  .  .  "  the  Constellation  "  :  since 
the  first  wandering  Bedouins  halted  in  the 
moonlit  Sahara  to  bow  before  Al  Wasat,  the 
Central  One:  since  the  poets  of  the  Zend- 
Avesta  hailed  the  overlordship  of  the  Holy 
Seven !  And  still  they  rise,  and  set,  changeless, 
mysterious.  Still  the  old  wonder,  the  old 
reverence  lives  ...  for  not  long  ago  I  heard 
a  tale  told  by  a  Gaelic  story-teller  who  spoke 
of  the  Pleiades  as  the  Seven  Friends  of  Christ, 
and  named  them  newly  as  Love,  Purity,  Cour- 
age, Tenderness,  Faith,  Joy,  and  Peace. 


335 


THE  RAINY  HYADES 
"Where  is  the  star  Imbrifer?     Let  us  adore  it." 

Years  ago  I  remember  coming  upon  this 
mysterious  phrase  in  a  poem  or  poetic  drama 
by  a  French  writer.  The  pagans,  led  by  a 
priest,  then  went  into  the  woods;  and,  in  a 
hollow  made  of  a  hidden  place  swept  by  great 
boughs,  worshipped  a  moist  star.  I  forget 
whether  the  scourge  of  drought  ended  then, 
and  if  winds  lifted  the  stagnant  branches,  if 
rains  poured  through  the  leaves  and  mosses 
and  reached  the  well-springs.  I  recall  only 
the  invocation,  and  some  faint  and  broken 
memory  of  the  twilight-procession  of  bitter 
hearts  and  wild  voices,  weary  of  vain  lamenta- 
tion and  of  unanswered  prayers  to  sleeping  or 
silent  gods.  But  often  I  wondered  as  to 
Imbrifer,  that  dark  lord  with  the  sonorous 
name.  Was  he  a  Gaulish  divinity,  or,  as  his 
name  signals,  a  strayed  Latin?  And  was  he, 
as  our  Manan  of  the  West,  a  sea-deity,  or  a 
divinity  of  the  clouds,  clothed,  like  the  shep- 
herd Angus  Sunlocks,  in  mist,  so  as  the  more 
336 


The  Rainy  Hyades 

secretly  to  drive  before  him  down  the  hidden 
ways  of  heaven  the  myriad  hosts  of  the  rain? 
Or  had  he  an  angelic  crest,  with  wings  of  un- 
failing water,  as  a  visionary  once  portrayed 
for  me  a  likeness  of  Midir,  that  ancient  Gaelic 
god  at  whose  coming  came  and  still  come  the 
sudden  dews,  or  whose  presence  or  the  signs 
of  whose  passage  would  be  revealed  and  still 
are  revealed  by  the  white  glisten  on  thickets 
and  grasses,  by  the  moist  coolness  on  the  lips 
of  leaf  and  flower. 

The  name,  too,  or  one  very  like  it,  I  heard 
once  in  a  complicated  (and,  alas,  for  the  most 
part  forgotten)  tale  of  the  Kindred  of  Manan, 
the  Poseidon  of  the  Gael :  remembered  be- 
cause of  the  singular  companionship  of  three 
or  four  other  Latin-sounding  names,  which 
the  old  Schoolmaster-teller  may  have  invented, 
or  himself  introduced,  or  mayhap  had  in  the 
sequence  of  tradition  from  some  forgotten 
monkish  reciter  of  old.  Aquarius  and  either 
Cetus  or  Delphinius  (quaintly  given  as  the 
Pollack,  the  porpoise)  were  of  the  astronomi- 
cal company,  I  remember — and  Neptheen  or 
Nepthuinn  (Neptune),  notwithstanding  his 
oneness  with  Manan's  self. 

But  Imbrifer  had  faded  from  my  mind,  as 
though  washed  away  by  one  of  his  waves  of 
rain  or  obliterated  by  one  of  his  dense  mists, 

337 


The  Rainy  Hyades 

till  the  other  day.  Then,  as  it  happened,  I 
came  upon  the  name  once  more,  in  a  Latin 
quotation  in  an  old  book.  So,  he  was  of  the 
proud  Roman  clan  after  all !  and,  by  the  con- 
text, clearly  a  divinity  of  the  autumnal  rains, 
and  of  those  also  that  at  the  vernal  equinox 
are  as  a  sound  of  innumerable  little  clapping 
hands. 

Could  he  be  an  astronomical  figure,  a 
Zodiacal  prince  of  dominion,  I  wondered.  In 
vain  I  searched  through  all  available  pages 
connected  with  the  Hyades,  the  Stars  of 
Water :  in  vain,  the  chronicles  of  Aquarius,  of 
Cetus  and  the  Dolphin,  of  Hydra  and  Pisces 
and  Argo,  that  proud  Ship  of  March.  But 
last  night,  sitting  by  the  fire  and  hearing  the 
first  sleet  of  winter  whistle  through  the  di- 
shevelled oaks  and  soughing  firs,  when  I  was 
idly  reading  and  recalling  broken  clues  in  con- 
nection with  the  astrological  "  House  of 
Saturn,"  suddenly,  in  pursuit  of  a  cross-ref- 
erence to  some  detail  in  connection  with  the 
constellation  of  Capricorn,  I  encountered  Im- 
brifer  once  more.  "  Imbrifer,  the  Rain- 
Bringing  One." 

So,  then,  he  is  more  than  an  obscure  divin- 
ity of  the  woods  and  of  remote  ancestral 
clans !  Greater  even  than  Midir  of  the  Dews, 
one  of  the  great  Lords  of  Death :  greater  than 
338 


The  Rainy  Hyades 

the  Greek  Poseidon  or  the  Gaelic  Manan, 
heaven-throned  among  the  older  gods  though 
seen  of  mortals  only  on  gigantic  steeds  of 
ocean,  vast  sea-green  horses  with  feet  of  run- 
ning waves  and  breasts  of  billows.  For  he  is 
no  other  than  one  of  the  mightiest  of  the 
constellations,  Capricorn  itself!  The  name, 
in  a  word,  is  but  one  of  several  more  or  less 
obscure  or  forgotten  analogues  of  this  famous 
constellation,  concerning  which  the  first 
printed  English  astrological  almanac  (1386) 
has  "  whoso  is  born  in  Capcorn  schal  be  ryche 
and  wel  lufyd  " ! 

Imbrifer  himself  ...  or  itself  ...  is  cer- 
tainly not  "  wel  lufyd "  on  many  of  these 
October  and  November  days  of  floods  and 
rains !  Imbrifer  ...  the  very  name  is  a  kind 
of  stately,  Miltonic,  autumnal  compeer  of  our 
insignificant  (and,  in  Scotland,  dreaded!) 
rain-saint  of  July,  Swithin  of  dubious  mem- 
ory !  It  would  add  dignity  to  the  supplication 
or  imprecation  of  the  sleet-whipt  citizen  of 
Edinburgh  or  the  rain-and-mud-splashed  way- 
farer in  London,  during  the  wet  and  foggy 
days  of  November,  if,  instead  of  associating 
the  one  or  the  other  with  "  the  weather  "  or 
"  our  awful  climate  "  he  could  invoke  or  ab- 
jure so  imposing  and  grandiloquent  an  ab- 
straction as  "  Imbrifer  "  ! 

339 


The  Rainy  Hyades 

Truly  a  fit  Constellation  of   late   autumn, 
Capricornus. 

"Thy  Cold,  for  Thou  o'er  Winter  Signs  dost  reign, 
Pullst  back  the  Sun  ..." 

as  a  bygone  astronomical  versifier  has  it. 
Perhaps  he  had  in  mind  Horace's  "  tyrannus 
Hesperiae  Capricornus  undae,"  who  in  turn 
may  have  recalled  an  earlier  poet  still,  Eng- 
lish'd  thus: 

"...  Then  grievous  blasts 
Break  southward  on  the  Sea,  when  coincide 
The  Goat  and  Sun:  and  then  a  heaven-sent  cold." 

Many  of  us  will  remember  with  a  thrill 
Milton's  magnificent  image 

"...  Thence  down  amain 
As  deep  as  Capricorn," 

and  others  will  recall  the  often-quoted  line  of 
Dante  in  the  Paradiso  (relative  to  the  Sun's 
entrance  into  Capricorn  between  January  18 
and  February  14). 

"The  horn  of  the  Celestial  Goat  doth  touch  the  Sun." 

May  and  November  are  the  two  "  fatal  " 
months    with    the    Celtic    peoples:    the    first 

340 


The  Rainy  Hyades 

because  of  the  influence  of  the  Queen  of 
Faerie  (she  has  many  names),  and  the  second 
because  of  Midir,  who  sleeps  in  November, 
or,  as  another  legend  has  it,  "  goes  away  "  in 
that  month.  In  that  month  too  the  Daughter 
of  Midir  has  departed  on  her  long  quest  of 
her  brother  Aluinn  Og  (is  this  a  legend  or  a 
confused  traditionary  remembrance,  or  a 
mythopoeic  invention  ...  I  have  come  upon 
it  once  only),  to  find  him  asleep  under  the 
shaken  fans  of  the  Northern  Lights,  and  to 
woo  him  with  pale  arctic  fires,  and  auroras, 
and  a  faint  music  wrought  out  of  the  murmur 
of  polar  airs  on  a  harp  made  of  a  seal's 
breastbone.  It  is  but  in  another  guise  the  old 
Greek  legend  of  Persephone  in  the  Kingdom 
of  Aidoneus.  Again,  it  is  in  November  that 
the  touch  of  Dalua,  the  Secret  Fool  or  the  Ac- 
cursed of  the  Everlasting  Ones,  gives  death. 
Once  more,  it  is  in  November  that  Lir  holds 
his  great  banquet,  a  banquet  that  lasts  three 
months,  in  Tir-fo-tuinn,  the  Country  under 
the  waves.  In  one  way  or  another  all  these 
dreams  are  associated  with  the  sea,  with  water 
and  the  Winter  Solstice.  By  different  ways 
of  thought,  of  tradition,  and  of  dreaming 
phantasy,  the  minds  of  this  race  or  that 
people,  of  these  scattered  tribes  or  those 
broken  clans,  have  reached  the  same  strange 

341 


The  Rainy  Hyades 

goals  of  the  imagination.  The  spell  of  Capri- 
corn may  be  of  the  Waters  of  all  time,  since 
the  Horned  Goat  of  our  Celtic  forbears,  the 
"  Buccan  Horn  "  of  our  Anglo-Saxon  ances- 
tors, the  Latin  "  Imbrifer  "  or  "  Gelidus  "  or 
"Sea-Goat"  (in  several  variants),  the  Greek 
"  Athalpees  "  or  the  commoner  term  signify- 
ing a  Horned  Goat,  the  ancient  Egyptian 
Chnemu,  God  of  the  Waters,  the  perhaps  as 
ancient  Aztec  Cipactli,  imaged  like  the  nar- 
whal, the  Chinese  Mo  Ki  and  the  Assyrian 
Munaxa,  both  signifying  Goat  Fish — and  so 
forth,  East  and  West,  in  the  dim  past  and  the 
confused  present, — are  all  directly  or  indi- 
rectly associated  with  the  element  of  Water, 
with  the  Sea,  or  rains,  storm  and  change  and 
subtle  regeneration.  The  Greek  writers  called 
the  allied  constellation  of  Aquarius  Hydroc- 
hoiis,  the  Water-Pourer,  in  mythological  con- 
nection (a  Latin  commentator  avers)  with 
Deucalion  and  the  great  Flood,  that  many  be- 
lieve to  have  been  an  ancestral  memory  of  the 
Deluge  which  submerged  Atlantis.  The  An- 
glo-Saxons gave  it  the  same  name,  "  se  waeter- 
gyt."  There  is  a  breton  legend  in  connection 
with  Ys,  that  dim  Celtic  remembrance  of  van- 
ished Lyonesse  or  drowned  Atlantis,  to  the 
effect  (for  I  know  it  only  in  modern  guise) 
that  on  the  fatal  night  when  King  Gradlon 

342 


The  Rainy  Hyades 

saw  his  beautiful  city  unloosened  to  the  de- 
vouring waves  by  Dahut  the  Red,  his  Daugh- 
ter, the  Star  of  Water  shook  a  fiery  rain  upon 
land  and  sea  and  that  the  floods  of  heaven  fell, 
from  the  wake  of  the  Great  Galley  (the  Great 
Bear)  to  the  roots  of  the  unseen  tree  that 
bears  the  silver  Apples  (the  Pleiades),  and  as 
far  as  the  hidden  Well-springs  (the  Constella- 
tion of  Capricorn)  and  The  Mansion  of  the 
White  King  (the  Constellation  of  Aquarius) — 
the  White  King  being  water  personified. 

Nearly  all  the  ancient  Greek  and  Asian 
analogues  for  the  last  named,  Aquarius,  relate 
to  water.  One  of  the  few  old-world  excep- 
tions was  that  Roman  Zodiac  on  which  the 
constellation  figured  as  a  peacock,  symbol  of 
Here  (Juno),  because  that  in  her  month 
Gamelion  (part  January,  part  February)  the 
sun  enters  this  sign.  The  Greek  Islanders  of 
Ceos  called  it  Aristaeus,  in  memory  of  a  native 
Rain  Bringer.  Another  name  was  Cecrops, 
because  the  Cicada  or  Field-cricket  is  nour- 
ished by  the  dews  and  has  its  eggs  hatched  by 
the  vernal  rains.  It  would  be  wearisome  to 
collate  superfluous  instances.  Enough,  now, 
that  the  Arab,  the  Persian,  the  Syrian  and 
the  Israelite,  were  at  one  with  the  Hellene 
and  the  Anglo-Saxon  in  the  designation  of 
the  Water-Pourer,  or  an  equivalent  such  as 

343 


The  Rainy  Hyadcs 

the  Arabian  Al  Dalw,  the  Well-Bucket:  that 
in  China  of  old  its  sign  was  recognised  as  a 
symbol  of  the  Emperor  Tchoun  Hin,  the 
Chinese  Deucalion :  and  that  still  among  the 
astrologers  of  Central  Asia  and  Japan  it  has 
for  emblem  the  Rat,  the  far-Asiatic  ideograph 
for  water.  Strange  too  that  Star-Seers  so 
remote  as  the  Magi  of  the  East  and  the 
Druids  of  the  West  should  centrate  their 
stellar  science  on  this  particular  constellation. 
And,  once  more,  not  less  strange  that  alike  by 
the  banks  of  the  Euphrates  where  it  was 
called  the  Star  of  Mighty  Destiny,  on  the 
Arabian  Sands,  where  it  was  called  the  For- 
tune of  all  Fortune,  and  in  the  Druidic  woods 
of  the  Gaul  and  the  Gael  where  too  it  sym- 
bolised Fortune,  a  star  of  its  group  should  be 
the  Star  of  Fortune — the  group  alluded  to  by 
Dante  in  the  Purgatorio: 

"...  geomancers  their  Fortuna  Major 
See  in  the  Orient  before  the  dawn  .  .  ." 

Again,  is  it  tradition  or  coincidence  that  the 
Platonists  of  old  held  "  the  stairs  of  Capri- 
corn"  to  be  the  stellar  way  by  which  the 
souls  of  men  ascended  to  heaven,  so  that  the 
constellation  became  known  as  the  Gate  of 
the  Gods,  and  that  to-day  the  astrologers  and 

344 


The  Rainy  Hyades 

mystics  of  the  West  share  the  same  belief? 
Even  the  Caer  Arianrod  of  our  Celtic  forbears 
— the  Silver  Road,  as  generally  given  though 
obviously  very  loosely  .  .  .  and  may  not  the 
name  more  likely,  especially  in  connection 
with  a  basic  legend  of  the  constellation  of 
Corona  Borealis,  be  the  "  Mansion  of  Ariand  " 
(Ariadne)  ?  .  .  .  though  commonly  applied  to 
the  Milky  Way  or  less  often  to  the  Northern 
Crown,  is  sometimes  in  its  modern  equivalent 
used  to  designate  Capricorn.  Naturally,  to 
astrologers,  this  Constellation  with  that  of 
Aquarius,  is  of  greatest  import,  for  at  a  cer- 
tain time  "  the  House  of  Saturn  "  is  here  to 
be  discerned. 

It  is  a  drop  from  such  sounding  names  as 
these  to  "  the  Skinker."  Yet  by  this  name  our 
English  forefathers  probably  knew  in  com- 
mon speech  the  constellation  of  Aquarius.  At 
any  rate  a  Mr.  Cock,  "  Philomathemat,"  in  a 
rare  book  of  some  200  years  ago,  Meteorolo- 
giae,  speaks  of  Aquarius  by  this  singular 
name,  and  as  though  it  were  the  familiar  and 
accepted  designation :  "  Jupiter  in  the  Skinker 
opposed  by  Saturn  in  the  Lion  did  raise 
mighty  Southwest  Winds."  Here  again  in 
this  old  English  word,  meaning  a  tapster,  we 
have  an  analogue  of  the  Water-Pourer,  that 
universal  Zodiacal  sign  of  Aquarius. 

345 


The  Rainy  Hyades 

But  for  all  that  Horace,  and  following 
him  James  Thomson  in  the  Seasons  ("  Win- 
ter"), say  of  "Fierce  Aquarius  staining  the 
inverted  year,"  the  constellation  is  more  asso- 
ciated with  the  rain-tides  of  spring.  It  is 
then,  too,  in  mid-February  to  mid-March, 
that,  following  its  passage  through  Capri- 
corn, the  Sun  enters  it — so  that  "  benign  " 
and  not  "  fierce "  becomes  the  apt  epi- 
thet. 

All  these  "  watery  constellations  " — Aqua- 
rius, Capricorn,  Cetus,  the  Dolphin,  Hydra, 
Pisces — are  set  aside,  in  the  mouths  of  poets 
and  in  the  familiar  lore  of  the  many,  for  the 
Hyades,  that  lovely  sestet  of  Taurus  which  in 
these  winter-months  are  known  to  all  of  us, 
where  they  flash  and  dance  south-east  of  the 
Silver  Apples  of  childhood's  sky — the  clustered 
Pleiades.  They  have  become  the  typical  stars 
of  the  onset  of  winter — the  Lords  of  Rain — 
"  sad  companions  of  the  turning  year  "  as  an 
old  Roman  poet  calls  them,  "  the  seaman 
noted  Hyades "  of  Euripides,  "  the  Boar- 
Throng "  (feeders  on  the  mast  brought  down 
in  late  October  and  November  by  the  autum- 
nal rains)  of  our  Anglo-Saxon  fathers,  the 
"  Storm-Star  "  of  Pliny,  the  Moist  Daughters 
of  Spenser,  so  much  more  familiar  to  us  in 
Tennyson's 

346 


The  Rainy  Hyades 

"Thro"  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 
Vext  the  dim  sea." 


Of  old  the  whole  group  was  called  Aldebaran, 
but  now  we  recognise  in  that  name  only  the 
superb  star  whose  pale-rose  flame  lights 
gloriously  "  the  cold  forehead  of  the  wintry 
sky  "  to  quote  an  undeservedly  forgotten  poet. 
And  now,  Aldebaran  stands  apart  in  Taurus, 
and  the  six  storm-stars  are  torches  set  apart. 

Well,  the  Season  of  the  Rainy  Hyades  has 
come.  The  Water-Pourer,  the  Whale  and 
swift  Dolphin,  Pisces  ("  Leaders  of  the  Ce- 
lestial Host "  and  "  the  Diadem  of  Novem- 
ber "),  Hydra  the  Water-Snake,  every  Rain- 
Star,  from  flashing  Corona,  Bride  of  the 
White  Hawk,  to  the  far  southern  torch  of 
splendid  Achernar  in  Eridanus  the  Celestial 
River,  all  have  lent  the  subtle  influences  of  the 
first  of  the  Elements,  Water.  In  the  mystic's 
language,  we  are  now  in  the  season  when  the 
soul  may  least  confusedly  look  into  its  life  as 
in  a  shaken  mirror,  and  when  the  spirit  may 
"look  before  and  after."  For,  they  tell  us, 
in  the  occult  sense,  we  are  the  Children  of 
Water. 

To-night,  looking  at  the  Hyades,  dimmed 
in  a  vaporous  haze  foretelling  coming  storm, 
as  yet  afar  off,  I  find  myself,  I  know  not  why, 

347 


The  Rainy  Hyades 

and  in  a  despondency  come  I  know  not 
whence,  thinking  of  and  repeating  words  I 
read  to-day  in  a  translation  of  the  Bhagavad 
Gita: — "  I  am  in  the  hearts  of  all.  Memory 
and  Knowledge,  and  the  loss  of  both,  are  all 
from  Me.  There  are  two  entities  in  this 
world,  the  Perishable  and  the  Imperishable. 
All  creatures  are  the  Perishable  and  the  un- 
concerned One  is  the  Imperishable." 
The  unconcerned  One! 


348 


WINTER  STARS 


To  know  in  a  new  and  acute  way  the  spell 
of  the  nocturnal  skies,  it  is  not  necessary  to  go 
into  the  everlasting  wonder  and  fascination  of 
darkness  with  an  astronomer,  or  with  one 
whose  knowledge  of  the  stars  can  be  ex- 
pressed with  scholarly  exactitude.  For  the 
student  it  is  needful  to  know,  for  example, 
that  the  Hyades  are  Alpha,  Delta,  Eta,  etc., 
of  Tauri,  and  lie  10°  south-east  of  the  Plei- 
ades. But  as  one  sits  before  the  fireglow, 
with  one's  book  in  hand  to  suggest  or  one's 
memory  to  remind,  it  is  in  another  way  as  de- 
lightful and  as  fascinating  to  repeat  again  to 
oneself  how  Tennyson  in  Ulysses  speaks  of 
this  stellar  cluster  as 

"Thro"  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 
Vext  the  dim  sea  ..." 

or  how  Christopher  Marlowe  wrote  of  them 

"As  when  the  seaman  sees  the  Hyades 

Gather  an  army  of  Cimmerian  clouds, 
Auster  and  Aquilon  with  winged  steeds  .  .  ." 

349 


W 'inter  Stars 

to  recall  how  Spenser  alludes  to  them  as  "  the 
Moist  Daughters,"  or  how  our  Anglo-Saxon 
ancestors  called  them  "  the  Boar-Throng." 
One  must  know  that  Alpha  of  Bootes  is  the 
astronomical  signature  of  the  greater  Arc- 
turus,  but  how  much  it  adds  to  the  charm  of 
this  star's  interest  for  us  to  learn  that  among 
its  popular  names  are  the  Herdsman,  the  Bear- 
Watcher,  the  Driver  of  the  Wain,  and  to  know 
why  these  now  familiar  names  were  given 
and  by  whom.  One  may  grasp  the  signifi- 
cance of  the  acquired  knowledge  that  this  vast 
constellation  of  Bootes  stretches  from  the  con- 
stellation of  Draco  to  that  of  Virgo,  and  the 
numeration  of  its  degrees  in  declination  and 
ascension,  and  (if  one  may  thus  choose  be- 
tween the  85  and  the  140  of  astronomers)  that 
it  contains  a  hundred  stars  visible  to  the 
naked  eye.  But,  for  some  of  us  at  least,  there 
is  something  as  memorable,  something  as  re- 
vealing, in  a  line  such  as  that  of  the  Persian 
poet  Hafiz,  as  paraphrased  by  Emerson, 

"Poises  Arcturus  aloft  morning  and  evening  his 
spear" — 

or  that  superb  utterance  of  Carlyle  in  Sartor 
Resartus, 

"What  thinks  Bootes  of  them,  as  he  leads  his 
Hunting  Dogs  over  the  zenith  in  their  leash  of  side- 
real fire?" 

350 


Winter  Stars 

Not,  I  may  add  in  parenthesis,  that  the  seekers 
after  astronomical  knowledge  should  depend 
on  the  poets  and  romancers  for  even  an  un- 
technical  accuracy.  Literature,  alas,  is  full  of 
misstatements  concerning  the  moon  and  stars. 
Few  poets  are  accurate  as  Milton  is  magnifi- 
cently accurate,  his  rare  slips  lying  within  the 
reach  of  a  knowledge  achieved  since  his  day : 
or  as  Tennyson  is  accurate.  Carlyle  himself, 
quoted  above  in  so  beautiful  a  passage,  has 
made  more  than  one  strange  mistake  for  (as 
he  once  aspired  to  be)  a  student  astronomer: 
not  only,  as  in  one  instance,  making  the  Great 
Bear  for  ever  revolve  round  Bootes,  but,  in 
a  famous  passage  in  his  French  Revolution, 
speaking  of  Orion  and  the  Pleiades  glittering 
serenely  over  revolutionary  Paris  on  the  night 
of  9th  August  1792,  whereas,  as  some  fact- 
loving  astronomer  soon  pointed  out,  Orion  did 
not  on  that  occasion  rise  till  daybreak.  It  has 
been  said  of  the  Moon,  in  fiction,  that  her 
crescents  and  risings  and  wanings  are  to  most 
poets  and  novelists  apparently  an  inexplicable 
mystery,  an  unattainable  knowledge.  Even  a 
writer  who  was  also  a  seaman  and  navigator, 
Captain  Marryat,  writes  in  one  of  his  novels 
of  a  waning  crescent  moon  seen  in  the  early 
evening.  The  great  Shakespeare  himself 
wrote  of  the  Pole  Star  as  immutable,  as  the 

351 


Winter  Stars 

one  unpassing,  the  one  fixt  and  undeviating 
star — 

"...  constant  as  the  Northern  Star, 
Of  whose  true  fixed  and  lasting  quality 
There  is  no  fellow  in  the  firmament." 

This  was,  of  course,  ignorance  of  what  has 
since  been  ascertained,  and  not  uninstructed- 
ness  or  mere  hearsay.  Possibly,  too,  he  had 
in  mind  rather  that  apparent  unchanging 
aloofness  from  the  drowning  sea-horizon  to 
which  Homer  alludes  in  the  line  beautifully 
translated  "  Arctos,  sole  star  that  never  bathes 
in  the  ocean  wave  "...  of  which,  no  doubt, 
our  great  poet  had  read  in  the  quaint  delight- 
ful words  of  Chaucer  (rendering  Boetius) — 
"  Ne  the  sterre  y-cleped  '  the  Bere,'  that  en- 
clyneth  his  ravisshinge  courses  abouten  the 
soverein  heighte  of  the  worlde,  ne  the  same 
sterre  Ursa  nis  never-mo  wasshen  in  the  depe 
westrene  see,  no  coveitith  nat  to  deyen  his 
flaumbe  in  the  see  of  the  occian,  al-thogh  he 
see  other  sterres  y-plounged  in  the  see." 

That  constellation  "  y-cleped  the  Bere," 
how  profoundly  it  has  impressed  the  imagina- 
tion of  all  peoples.  In  every  age,  in  every 
country,  our  kindred  on  lonely  lands,  on  lonely 
seas,  from  caverns  and  camp-fires  and  great 
towers,  have  watched  it  "  incline  its  ravishing 
352 


Winter  Stars 

courses  "  about  the  Mountain  of  the  North, 
"  coveting  not  "  to  drown  its  white  fires  in  the 
polar  seas.  Here,  however,  it  is  strange  to 
note  the  universality  of  the  Ursine  image  with 
the  Greeks  and  Romans  and  the  nations  of 
the  South,  and  the  universality  with  the  Teu- 
tonic peoples  of  designations  such  as  the  Wain 
and  the  Plough.  It  was  not  till  the  Age  of 
Learning  set  in  among  the  Northern  peoples 
that  the  classic  term  came  into  common  use. 
Thus  in  a  tenth-century  Anglo-Saxon  manual 
of  astronomy  the  writer,  in  adopting  the  Greek 
Arctos  (still  used  occasionally  instead  of  the 
Bear),  adds  "  which  untaught  men  call  Carles- 
waen,"  that  is  Charles's  Wain,  the  Waggon. 
A  puzzling  problem  is  why  a  designation 
which  primarily  arose  from  an  association  of 
the  early  Greeks  concerning  Arkas,  their  im- 
aginary racial  ancestor,  with  Kallisto  his 
mother,  who  had  been  changed  into  a  great 
bear  in  the  heavens,  should  also  suggest  itself 
to  other  peoples,  to  races  so  remote  in  all  ways 
as  the  North  American  Indians.  Yet  before 
the  white  man  had  visited  the  tribes  of  North 
America  the  red  men  called  the  constellation 
by  names  signifying  a  bear.  The  historian 
Bancroft  has  proved  that  alike  among  the  Al- 
gonquins  of  the  Atlantic  and  of  the  Mississip- 
pi, among  the  Eastern  Narragansett  nations 

353 


Winter  Stars 

and  among  the  nations  of  the  Illinois,  the 
Bear  was  the  accepted  token. 

Bootes,  the  Great  Bear,  the  Little  Dipper 
or  Ursa  Minor,  these  great  constellations,  with 
their  splendid  beacons  Arcturus,  the  Triones 
or  the  Seven  Hounds  of  the  North,  and  the 
Pole  Star— 

"By  them,  on  the  deep, 
The  Achaians  gathered  where  to  sail  their  ships — 

and  in  like  fashion  all  the  races  of  man  since 
Time  was  have  "  gathered "  the  confusing 
ways  of  night  on  all  lonely  seas  and  in  all 
lonely  lands. 

But  best  of  all,  to  know  this  spell  of  the 
nocturnal  skies,  one  should  be  in  the  company 
of  fisher-folk  or  old  seamen  or  shepherds,  per- 
chance unlettered  but  wise  in  traditional  lore 
and  leal  to  the  wisdom  of  their  fathers.  How 
much  more  I  value  what  I  have  heard  from 
some  shepherd  on  the  wide  dark  moors,  or 
from  some  islesman  in  a  fishing-coble  or  drift- 
ing wherry,  on  moonless  nights  filled  with  a 
skyey  "  phosphorescence  "  as  radiant  as  that 
a-dance  and  a-gleam  in  the  long  seethe  of  the 
wake  of  a  ship,  than  what  I  have  found  con- 
cerning scientific  star-names  in  books  of  as- 
tronomy. Nothing  that  I  have  since  learned 
of  "  the  Pointers  "  has  impressed  me  so  much 
354 


Winter  Stars 

as  what  I  learned  as  a  child  of  "  the  Hounds 
of  Angus,"  nor,  in  later  and  fuller  knowledge 
of  Polaris,  has  the  child's  first  knowledge  of 
the  mystery  and  wonder  of  "  the  Star  of  Wis- 
dom," as  pointed  out  and  tale-told  by  an  old 
Hebridean  fisherman,  or  of  "  the  House  of 
Dreams,"  as  sung  to  me  in  a  forgotten  ballad 
by  a  Gaelic  woman  of  Argyll,  been  surpassed. 
It  was  they — herdsmen  and  mariners,  the 
wayfarer,  the  nomad,  the  desert-wanderer — 
who,  of  old,  gave  these  names  to  which  the 
nations  have  grown  used.  It  was  with  the 
nomad  that  astronomy  began.  The  Chaldaean 
shepherd,  the  Phoenician  mariner,  studied  the 
stars  and  named  them  and  the  great  constella- 
tions which  group  themselves  from  horizon  to 
horizon  in  the  nocturnal  skies.  They  per- 
ceived strange  symmetries,  symbolic  images, 
grotesque  resemblances.  The  same  instinct 
made  the  Arab  of  the  Desert  call  the  Pleiades 
the  Herd  of  Camels,  made  the  Akkadian  call 
them  the  Wild  Doves,  made  the  Celtic  hunter 
call  them  the  Pack  of  Hounds,  made  the  Teu- 
ton peasant  call  them  the  Hen  and  Chickens, 
made  the  Australian  savage  call  them  (in  con- 
junction with  the  Bear)  Young  Girls  playing 
to  Young  Men  dancing:  the  same  instinct, 
this,  as  made  the  ancient  poet  of  the  Zend- 
Avesta  call  them  the  Seven  Beneficent  Spirits, 

355 


Winter  Stars 

or  made  the  modern  poet  of  Locksley  Hall 
liken  them  to  a  swarm  of  fireflies,  or  made  the 
Gaelic  poet  of  to-day  image  them  as  the  Her- 
ring-Net. In  a  word,  the  instinct  of  poetry : 
which  is  as  deep  as  hunger  and  thirst,  as  deep 
as  love,  as  deep  as  fear,  as  deep  as  the  desire 
of  life.  The  instinct  of  the  imagination  to 
clothe  the  mysterious  and  the  inexplicable  in 
the  raiment  of  the  familiar  or  of  recognisable 
and  intimate  symbol. 

How  infinitely  it  adds  to  the  beauty  of  star- 
names  such  as  Aldebaran,  Alcyone,  Polaris, 
to  know  that  to  the  swarthy  nomads  of  the 
desert  it  imaged  itself  as  one  following  in  a 
skyey  desert,  a  camel-driver  tracking  lost 
camels,  a  hound  following  a  quarry,  a  warrior 
following  a  foe,  a  holy  pilgrim  tracking  the 
difficult  ways  of  God,  so  that  no  name  seemed 
to  them  so  apt  as  Al  Dabaran,  the  Follower: 
or  to  know  that  to  the  pastoral  Akkadians  or 
the  early  tillers  and  hunters  of  sea-set  Greece, 
looking  at  the  Pleiades  in  winter,  Alcyone  in 
its  lovely  group  suggested  the  Nest  of  the 
Halcyon,  the  summer-bird  who  had  flown  to 
the  remote  depths  of  the  sky  to  sit  and  brood 
there  on  a  windless  wave-unreached  nest  till 
once  again  "  the  Halcyon  days  "  of  calm  set- 
tled on  land  and  sea :  or  to  know  that  to  our 
own  seafaring  folk  of  old,  the  men  who  voy- 

356 


Winter  Stars 

aged  perilously  in  small  and  frail  craft  without 
compass  and  with  little  knowledge  of  the  mys- 
terious laws  of  the  mysterious  forces  of  earth 
and  sea  and  heaven,  Polaris  was  the  one  un- 
changing skyey  beacon,  the  steadfast  unswerv- 
ing North  Star ;  and,  so,  lovingly  called  by  our 
old  Saxon  forbears  the  Scipsteorra,  the  Ship- 
Star,  and  by  the  Elizabethan  seafarers  the 
Lodestar  or  Pilot- Star,  and  by  the  Hebridean 
fishermen  the  Home-Star,  and  by  others  the 
Star  of  the  Sea. 


'Constellations  come,  and  climb  the  heavens,  and 

go- 
Star  of  the  Pole!  and  thou  dost  see  them  set. 

Alone  in  thy  cold  skies, 

Thou  keep'st  thy  old  unmoving  station  yet, 
Nor  join'st  the  dances  of  that  glittering  train, 
Nor  dipp'st  thy  virgin  orb  in  the  blue  western  main. 

On  thy  unaltering  blaze 
The  half-wrecked  mariner,  his  compass  lost, 

Fixes  his  steady  gaze, 

And  steers,  undoubting,  to  the  friendly  coast; 
And  they  who  stray  in  perilous  wastes  by  night 
Are  glad  when  thou  dost  shine  to  guide  their  foot- 
steps right." 


The  same  spirit  which  animated  Bryant  when 
he  wrote  these  verses  in  his  beautiful  "  Hymn 
to  the  North  Star,"  or  made  one  of  the  Gaelic 
island-poets  allude  to  it  as  the  Star  of  Com- 

357 


Winter  Stars 

passion,  prevailed  with  these  Chaldaean  shep- 
herds and  Arabian  nomads  of  old.  They 
gave  the  familiar  or  beautiful  names  of  love 
or  intimate  life,  and  in  exchange  the  taciturn 
face  of  heaven  lost  its  terrifying  menace  of 
silence,  and  the  Night  became  a  comrade,  be- 
came the  voice  of  the  poets,  of  the  sages,  of 
the  prophets  and  seers,  the  silver  gateways  of 
the  Unknown. 

The  Hunter,  the  Herdsman,  the  Bear- 
Watcher,  the  Driver  of  the  Wain — how  much 
more  we  love  Bootes,  or,  as  Chaucer  called 
the  constellation,  "ye  sterres  of  Arctour," 
because  of  these  simple  names.  The  Herds- 
man, the  Hunter,  .  .  .  the  words  strike  the 
primitive  music.  The  youth  of  the  world  is 
in  them.  In  these  few  letters  what  infinite 
perspectives,  what  countless  images.  The 
Golden  Age  lies  hid  in  their  now  impenetrable 
thickets.  Through  their  branches  we  may 
look  at  the  tireless  hunter  of  to-day  on  the 
interminable  pampas,  at  the  bowed  trailer  in 
the  dim  savannahs  of  the  Amazon,  at  the 
swarthy  nomad  on  the  wastes  of  Sahara 
guarding  his  camels  like  ships  becalmed  in  a 
vast  sea  of  sand,  or  may  see  the  solitary  moun- 
tain-shepherd in  the  hill-wildernesses  of  Spain 
or  Italy,  or  the  Northern  herdsman  toiling 
against  wind  and  snow  on  our  Gaelic  hills. 
358 


Winter  Stars 

Here  also  is  the  romance  of  the  stars,  as 
well  as  that  deeper  and  perturbing  romance 
which  is  disclosed  to  us  in  the  revelations  of 
science.  That  sense  of  incalculable  distances, 
of  immeasurable  periods,  of  unknown  destinies 
and  amazing  arrivals,  which  haunts  the  im- 
agination of  the  astronomer  when  he  looks 
beyond  the  frontiers  of  ascertained  knowledge, 
half -doubting  perhaps  whether  even  that  be 
not  a  terrible  illusory  logic,  is  also  here.  One 
goes  back,  as  in  thought  one  recedes  into  the 
beautiful,  impassioned  wonderland  of  child- 
hood. One  seems  to  see  mankind  itself  as  a 
child,  gone  but  a  little  way  even  yet,  looking 
up  trustfully  or  fearfully  to  the  mysterious 
mother-eyes  of  a  Face  it  cannot  rightly  dis- 
cern, in  its  breath  being  Immortality,  Eternity 
in  its  glance,  and  on  its  brows  Infinitude. 


359 


WINTER    STARS 
II 

Of  all  winter  stars  surely  the  most  familiar 
is  Polaris,  the  Pole  Star  or  Lodestar:  of  all 
winter  Constellations,  the  Plough,  the  Little 
Dipper  (to  give  the  common  designations), 
Orion,  and  the  lovely  cluster  of  the  Pleiades, 
are,  with  the  Milky  Way,  the  most  commonly 
observed  stellar  groups.  One  of  our  old  Scot- 
tish poets,  Gawain  Douglas,  writing  towards 
the  close  of  the  fifteenth  or  early  in  the  six- 
teenth century,  thus  quaintly  brought  them 
into  conjunction — 

"Arthurys  hous,  and  Hyades  betaikning  rane, 
Watlingtstrete,  the  Home  and  the  Charlewane, 
The  fiers  Orion  with  his  goldin  glave." 

Here  possibly  he  has  taken  Arcturus  for 
Polaris.  Of  old,  the  Lodestar  and  Arcturus 
(or,  as  often  given  in  the  North,  "  Arturus  " 
or  "  Arthur  "...  a  word  itself  signifying  the 
Great  or  Wondrous  Bear)  were  often  con- 
fused. Sometimes,  too,  Arcturus  stood  for 
360 


Winter  Stars 

the  whole  constellation  of  .Ursa  Major — 
or,  as  we  commonly  call  it,  the  Plough 
or  the  Wain,  as,  for  example,  in  Scott's 
lines : 

"Arthur's  slow  wain  his  course  doth  roll, 
In  utter  darkness,  round  the  Pole." 

But  it  is  obvious  Gawain  Douglas  did  not 
mean  this  to  be  understood,  for  in  the  second 
line  he  speaks  of  "  Charlewane,"  i.e.,  Charles's 
Wain  .  .  .  the  Wain  or  Waggon  being  then, 
as  it  still  is  among  country-folk,  even 
more  familiar  a  term  than  the  Great  Bear  or 
than  the  Plough  itself.  Probably,  then,  he 
had  in  mind  the  Pole  Star,  the  "  House  of 
Arthur  "  of  the  ancient  British.  His  choice 
of  the  "  rain-betokening  Hyades "  may  be 
taken  here  as  including  the  Pleiades,  these 
"  greater  seven  "  in  whom  centres  so  much 
poetry  and  old  legend.  A  previous  paper  has 
been  devoted  to  the  Milky  Way,  so  that  there 
is  no  need  to  explain  why  Watling  Street 
should  be  analogous  with  the  Galaxy.  The 
"  Home "  is  the  Little  Dipper  or  Ursa 
Minor.  Than  "  fierce  Orion  with  his  glis- 
tering sword "  there  is  no  constellation  so 
universally  familiar.  If,  then,  to  this  cate- 
gory of  the  old  Scottish  poet,  we  add  the 


Winter  Stars 

star  Aldebaran,  and  the  constellation  of  Tau- 
rus or  the  Bull,  we  have  more  than 
enough  Winter  Lights  to  consider  in  one 
chapter. 

Having  already,  however,  dealt  with  "  the 
watery  constellations  "  we  can  be  the  more 
content  now  to  ignore  Alcyone,  Maia,  Tay- 
geta,  Electra,  and  the  other  Pleiadic  stars  of 
Taurus.  This  great  constellation  is  one  of 
the  earliest  in  extant  astronomical  records: 
the  earliest,  it  is  believed.  The  stellar  image 
of  a  Bull  has  occurred  to  many  nations  since 
the  designation  first  arose  among  the  ancient 
Cretans  or  Akkadians — if,  indeed,  in  its  origin 
it  was  not  immeasurably  more  remote.  East 
and  West,  in  the  deserts  of  the  South  and 
among  the  grey  isles  of  the  North,  "  the 
Bull  "  was  recognised.  To-day  the  Scottish 
peasant  still  calls  it  "  the  Steer,"  as  his  Ger- 
man kinsman  does  in  der  Sticr,  his  French 
kinsman  in  le  Taureau,  his  Spanish  or  Italian 
kinsman  in  Toro.  When  certain  of  the 
Greeks  and  Latins  used  Kerdon  and  Cornus 
instead  of  Tauros  and  Taurus,  they  said 
merely  the  same  thing — the  Horned  One. 
Virgil,  as  many  will  remember,  utilises  the 
image  in  the  first  "  Georgic  ": 

"When  with  his  golden  horns  bright  Taurus  opes 
The  year  .  ,  ." 

362 


Winter  Stars 

just  as  a  poet  of  our  own  time,  in  a  beautiful 
"  Hymn  to  Taurus,"  writes : 

"...  I  mark,  stern  Taurus,  through  the  twilight 

grey 

The  glinting  of  thy  horn 
And  sullen  front,  uprising  large  and  dim 
Bent  to  the  starry  Hunter's  sword  at  bay." 

Among  our  own  ancestors,  the  Druids  made 
Taurus  an  object  of  worship,  the  Tauric 
Festival  having  been  one  of  the  great  events 
of  the  year,  signalised  when  the  sun  first 
entered  the  imagined  frontiers  of  this  constel- 
lation. To-day,  among  the  homesteads  of  our 
Scottish  lowlands,  the  farm-folk  tell  of  the 
Candlemas  Bull  who  may  be  seen  to  rise  in  the 
gloaming  on  New  Year's  Eve  and  move  slowly 
to  the  dark  pastures  which  await  his  coming. 
The  particular  stellar  glory  of  this  constel- 
lation is  Aldebaran.  This  beautiful  star  has 
appealed  to  the  imagination  of  all  peoples.  I 
do  not  know  what  were  its  earliest  Celtic  or 
Anglo-Saxon  names.  But  as  in  Gaelic  it  is 
sometimes  called  "  the  Hound,"  this  term 
may  well  be  a  survival  from  ancient  days.  If 
so,  there  is  an  interesting  relation  with  the 
primitive  Arabic  name  by  which  it  is  all  but 
universally  known.  Aldebaran  is  Al  Dabaran, 
the  Follower :  and,  figuratively,  a  follower 

363 


Winter  Stars 

could  hardly  be  better  symbolised  than  by  a 
hound.  I  recall  a  Gaelic  poem  on  a  legendary 
basis  where  the  analogy  is  still  further  em- 
phasised, for  there  Aldebaran  is  called  "  the 
Hound  of  the  Pleiades,"  which  is  exactly 
what  the  Arabian  astronomers  implied  in  "  the 
Follower."  Another  interesting  resemblance 
is  between  "  the  red  hound  "  of  the  Gaelic 
poet  and  legend  and  the  Rohinl  of  the  Hindus, 
that  word  signifying  "  a  red  deer  "...  in 
each  case  the  ruddy  gleam  of  the  star  having 
suggested  the  name.  Probably  it  was  this 
characteristic  which  led  Ptolemy  to  apply  to 
the  star  the  name  "  Lampadias "  or  the 
Torch-Bearer.  In  the  narration  of  folk-tales 
I  have  more  than  once  or  twice  heard  Alde- 
baran alluded  to  as  the  star  of  good  fortune, 
of  "  the  golden  luck."  With  us  it  is  pre- 
eminently a  winter-star,  and  may  be  seen  at 
its  finest  from  the  latter  part  of  January  till 
the  approach  of  the  vernal  equinox.  Some 
idea  of  its  luminosity  may  be  gained  from  the 
fact  that  this  is  thrice  the  outglow  of  the 
Pole  Star.  How  often  I  have  stood  on  a 
winter's  night,  and  watched  awhile  this  small 
red  "  torch  "  burning  steadfastly  in  the  un- 
changing heavens,  and  thought  of  its  vast 
journeys,  of  that  eternal,  appalling  procession 
through  the  infinite  deeps:  how  often  I  have 

364 


Winter  Stars 

felt  the  thrill  of  inexplicable  mystery  when, 
watching  its  silent  fire  in  what  appears  an 
inexorable  fixity,  I  recall  what  science  tells 
us,  that  it  is  receding  from  our  system  at  an 
all  but  unparalleled  velocity,  a  backward  flight 
into  the  unknown  at  the  rate  of  thirty  miles 
a  second. 

It  would  be  hopeless  to  attempt  here  even 
the  briefest  account  of  the  primitive  and 
diverse  nomenclature,  the  mythology,  the 
folklore  of  Orion  .  .  .  the  Winter-Bringer,  as 
this  constellation  is  called  in  an  old  Scandi- 
navian saga,  identical  thus  with  the  marginal 
reading  in  the  Geneva  Bible  relative  to  the 
reference  to  Orion  in  Job — "  which  starre 
bringeth  in  winter,"  an  allusion  to  its  even- 
ing appearance  at  the  season  of  cold  and 
storms.  For  these  things  are  writ  in  the  re- 
cords of  a  hundred  nations.  They  are  alive  in 
the  poetry  of  all  peoples.  Centuries  before 
our  era,  when  Thebes  was  the  greatest  city 
of  Greece,  the  poetess  Corinna  sang  of  this 
great  Warrior,  the  Great  Hunter,  whose 
nightly  course  was  so  glorious  above  the 
dusky  lands  and  waters  of  Hellas.  Long  after 
Pindar  and  the  Greek  poets,  Catullus  and 
Horace  gave  it  a  like  preeminence  in  Latin 
literature.  In  our  own  poetry,  many  surely 
will  recall  from  Paradise  Lost: 

365 


Winter  Stars 

"...  when  with  fierce  winds  Orion  arm'd 
Hath  vext  the  Red-sea  coast,  whose  waves  o'er- 

threw 
Busiris  and  his  Memphian  chivalry  ..." 

or  Tennyson's  beautiful  line  in  Locksley  Hall: 
"Great  Orion  sloping  slowly  to  the  west  ..." 

or,  it  may  be,  that  epic  of  "  Orion  "  upon 
which  is  based  Richard  Hengist  Home's 
claim  to  remembrance — or,  once  more,  Mat- 
thew Arnold's  fine  allusion  to  Sirius  and 
Orion  in  Sohrab  and  Rustum: 

"...  the  Northern  Bear, 
Who  from  her  frozen  height  with  jealous  eye 
Confronts  the  Dog  and  Hunter  in  the  South." 

Before  Catullus  or  Pindar  the  Egyptians  had 
identified  Orion  both  with  Horus  and  Osiris. 
Among  the  peoples  of  Israel  the  poets  ac- 
claimed the  constellation  as  Nimrod,  "  the 
mighty  Hunter  "  (or  by  another  term  signify- 
ing the  Giant),  "bound  to  the  sky  for  rebel- 
lion against  Jehovah."  Among  the  Celtic 
races  it  has  had  kindred  names,  sometimes 
abstract,  sometimes  personal,  as  the  Gaelic 
Fionn.  A  year  or  so  ago  I  was  told  a  sea- 
tale  of  the  Middle  Isles,  in  which  was  an  allu- 
sion to  this  constellation  as  "  the  Bed  of 
366 


Winter  Stars 

Diarmid."  This  is  of  especial  interest,  because 
of  its  connection  with  Fionn  or  Finn,  the 
Nimrod,  the  great  Hunter  of  the  Gael.  But 
in  this  story  (a  modern,  not  an  ancient  tale, 
though  with  more  than  one  strange  old  sur- 
vival) the  major  position  is  not  held  by  Fionn, 
but  by  the  Alban-Gaelic  hero  Diarmid,  who 
is  represented  as  succumbing  under  the  spear 
thrust  in  his  left  side  by  the  enraged  Fionn, 
at  last  in  grips  with  the  daring  chieftain  who 
had  robbed  him  of  Grania.  When  questioned, 
my  informant  said  he  had  heard  a  variant  of 
this  attribution,  and  that  the  constellation 
was  an  image  of  Diarmid  with  Grania  hang- 
ing to  his  side  in  a  swoon,  because  she  and 
her  lover  have  been  overtaken  by  the  wrath 
of  Fionn  .  .  .  though  from  the  description  I 
could  not  make  out  whether  the  latter  indi- 
cated the  star  Sirius,  or  the  rival  constellation 
of  the  Great  Bear.  The  Gaels  of  old  called 
Orion  Caomai,  a  name  said  to  signify  the 
Armed  King:  while  the  Gall  (the  Scandi- 
navian races)  applied  the  name  Orwandil,  but 
with  what  signification  I  do  not  know,  though 
I  have  read  somewhere  that  it  stood  for  Hero, 
or  for  an  heroic  personage. 

Of  the  chief  stars  in  Orion  there  is  not 
space  here  to  speak.  But  of  the  splendid 
Rigel — as  affluent  in  the  mysterious  science 

367 


Winter  Stars 

of  the  astrologer  as  in  nocturnal  light — pearly 
Anilam,  of  the  Belt  or  Sword — ominous  Bel- 
latrix  —  ruddy-flamed  Betelgeuze  —  of  these 
alone  one  might  write  much  ...  as  one 
might  write  much  of  the  Girdle  or  Staff  itself, 
what  Scott  in  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel 
calls  "  Orion's  studded  belt."  It  has  a  score 
of  popular  names,  from  the  Danish  Frigge 
Rok  (Freya's  Distaff)  to  the  seamen's  "  Yard- 
arm,"  as,  collectively,  its  three  great  stars 
have  all  manner  of  names  in  different  coun- 
tries, from  the  Magi,  or  the  Three  Kings  or 
the  Three  Marys,  to  The  Rake  of  the  French 
Rhinelanders  or  the  Three  Mowers  of  the 
Silesian  peasant. 

Those  who  have  studied  the  mythology  and 
folklore  of  the  Pleiades  will  remember  how 
universally  the  numeral  seven  is  associated 
with  their  varying  nomenclature.  But  there 
was,  and  still  is  among  primitive  peoples,  not 
infrequent  confusion  in  the  use  of  "  The 
Seven  Stars  "  as  a  specific  name.  Although 
from  China  to  Arabia,  from  India  and  Persia 
to  the  Latin  countries  of  the  South,  the  term 
almost  invariably  designates  the  Pleiades,  in 
the  folklore  of  many  Western  nations  it  is 
used  for  the  seven  planets,  and  in  many 
Northern  races  it  is  often  used  for  the  seven 
brilliant  stars  of  the  Great  Bear.  Even  the 
368 


Winter  Stars 

Biblical  allusion  to  "  The  Seven  Stars,"  as  our 
own  Anglo-Saxon  ancestral  Sifunsterri,  does 
not  necessarily  indicate  the  Pleiades :  many 
consider  the  seven  great  planets  to  be  meant. 
There  is  a  Shetland  rune,  common  to  all  the 
north  isles  and  to  be  heard  in  Iceland  and 
Norway,  known  as  the  rune  of  sevens,  and  of 
which  one  of  the  invocatory  lines  is  "  And  by 
da  seven  shiners."  All  kinds  of  interpreta- 
tion have  explained  this,  from  the  obvious 
"  seven  planets,"  or  else  the  Pleiades,  to  the 
Seven  Candlesticks  of  Revelation  and  I  know 
not  what  besides.  I  have  again  and  again 
asked  fisher-folk  or  others  from  the  Orkneys 
and  Shetlands,  and  in  all  but  one  or  two 
instances  the  answer  has  clearly  indicated  the 
Great  Bear,  occasionally  Polaris  and  the 
Ursine  Arcturus  and  their  nearest  brilliant 
"  shiners."  Again,  Crannarain,  one  of  the 
Gaelic  names  for  the  Pleiades,  is,  perhaps,  as 
often  applied  to  the  Great  Bear:  the  curious 
legend  of  the  Baker's  Shovel,  implied  in  the 
Gaelic  term,  fitting  equally. 

Of  the  Great  Bear,  of  the  North  Star, 
however,  I  have  already  spoken.  Of  Polaris 
itself,  indeed,  there  is  more  than  enough  to 
draw  upon.  Years  ago  I  began  an  MS.  book 
called  "The  Book  of  the  North  Star,"  and 
from  my  recollection  of  it  (for  at  the  moment 

369 


Winter  Stars 

of  writing  I  am  far  from  my  books)  I  should 
say  there  is  enough  folklore  and  legend  and 
various  interest  connected  with  this  star 
wherefrom  to  evolve  a  volume  solely  devoted 
to  it.  It  is  strange  that  "  the  Lamp  of  the 
North "  should  have  so  fascinated  all  the 
poets  from  the  time  of  Homer  till  to-day,  and 
yet  that  all  have  dwelled  in  the  same  illusion 
as  to  its  absolute  steadfastness.  Nevertheless, 
Homer's 

"Arctos,  sole  star  that  never  bathes  in  the  ocean 
wave ' ' 

has  both  poetic  truth  and  the  truth  of 
actuality. 

It  is  a  relief  to  put  aside  notes  and  pen  and 
paper,  and  to  go  out  and  look  up  into  the 
darkness  and  silence,  to  those  "  slow-moving 
palaces  of  wandering  light  "  of  which  one  has 
been  writing.  How  overwhelmingly  futile 
seems  not  only  the  poor  written  word,  but 
even  the  mysterious  pursuit  of  the  far-fathom- 
ing thought  of  man.  By  the  sweat  of  the 
brow,  by  the  dauntless  pride  of  the  mind,  we 
mortal  creatures  have  learned  some  of  the 
mysteries  of  the  coming  and  going  in  infini- 
tude of  these  incalculable  worlds,  of  their  vast 
procession  from  the  unknown  to  the  un- 

370 


Winter  Stars 

known.  Then,  some  night,  one  stands  soli- 
tary in  the  darkness,  and  feels  less  than  the 
shadow  of  a  leaf  that  has  passed  upon  the 
wind,  before  these  still,  cold,  inevitable,  in- 
finitely remote  yet  overwhelmingly  near  Chil- 
dren of  Immortality. 


371 


BEYOND  THE  BLUE  SEPTENTRIONS 

TWO   LEGENDS   OF  THE   POLAR   STARS 

The  star  Septentrion  is,  for  the  peoples  of 
the  North  and  above  all  for  the  shepherd,  the 
seaman  and  the  wayfarer,  the  star  of  stars. 
A  hundred  legends  embody  its  mystery,  its 
steadfast  incalculable  service,  its  unswerving 
isolation  over  the  Pole.  Polaris,  the  North 
Star,  the  Pole  Star,  the  Lodestar,  the  Sea- 
man's Star,  the  Star  of  the  Sea,  the  Gate 
of  Heaven,  Phcenice,  Cynosure,  how  many 
names,  in  all  languages,  at  all  times.  The 
Mongolian  nomad  called  it  the  Imperial  Ruler 
of  Heaven :  the  Himalayan  shepherd,  Gra- 
hadara,  the  Pivot  of  the  Planets:  the  Arab 
knows  it  as  the  Torch  of  Prayer,  burning  for 
ever  at  the  portal  of  the  heavenly  Mecca. 
It  shines  through  all  literature,  since  (and 
indeed  long  before)  Euripides  wrote  his  su- 
perb verse  of  how  the  two  great  Northern 
constellations  which  encircle  Polaris,  Ursa 
Major  and  Ursa  Minor,  the  two  "  swift- 
wandering  "  Bears,  "  guard  the  Atlantean 

372 


Beyond  the  Blue  Septentrions 

Pole,"  till  a  poet  of  our  own  time  wrote  the 
less  majestic  but  not  less  lovely  line  relating 
to  these  constellations  which  gives  the  title 
to  this  paper.  In  all  ages,  too,  the  dreaming 
mind  of  man  has  imagined  here  the  Throne 
of  the  Gods,  the  Seat  of  the  Mighty,  the  last 
Portal  of  the  Unknown.  It  is  the  Flathe- 
ansas  of  our  Gaelic  ancestors,  the  ultimate 
goal  of  the  heroic  spirit :  the  Himinbiorg,  or 
Hill  of  Heaven,  of  the  Norsemen  of  old,  and 
the  abode  of  Heimdallr,  the  guardian  of  the 
bridge  Bifrost  (the  Rainbow)  which  unites 
Asgard  the  Everlasting  with  that  brief  whirl- 
ing phantom,  the  Earth.  It  is  Albordy,  "  the 
dazzling  mountain  on  which  was  held  the  As- 
sembly of  the  Gods  "  of  the  ancient  Teutonic 
peoples :  the  mysterious  Mount  Meru,  the 
seat  of  the  gods,  of  the  Aryan  dreamers  of 
old,  and  the  Hindu  sages  of  later  time :  "  the 
holy  mountain  of  God  "  alluded  to  in  Ezekiel 
— so,  at  least,  it  has  been  surmised. 

"  The  blue  Septentrions  "...  Bootes  with 
Arcturus,  the  Great  Bear,  the  Lesser  Bear, 
the  Pointers  or  the  Northern  Hounds,  the 
North  Star  .  .  .  what  legend,  what  poetry, 
what  romance,  what  wonder  belongs  to  these 
stars  and  constellations  which  guard  the 
marches  of  the  Arctic  North.  To  the  mass  of 
what  is  already  extant,  what  need  to  add 

373 


Beyond  the  Blue  Scptentrions 

further  matter?  And  yet  there  is  ever  new 
justification  in  that  continual  need  of  the  soul 
to  hear  over  and  over  again  and  in  ever-vary- 
ing ways  even  the  most  fragmentary  runes  or 
sagas  of  this  unfathomably  mysterious  stellar 
universe  which  encloses  us  with  Silence  and 
Beauty  and  Wonder,  the  three  Veils  of  God 
— as  the  Hebridean  islesman,  the  Irish  Gael 
of  the  dreaming  west,  and  the  Arab  of  the 
Desert  alike  have  it. 

I  have  elsewhere  spoken  of  the  legendary 
association  of  Arthur  (the  Celtic-British  King 
and  the  earlier  mythical  Arthur,  semi-divine, 
and  at  last  remote  and  celestial)  with  Arc- 
turus,  that  lovely  Lamp  of  the  North,  the 
glory  of  Bootes.  But  now,  I  may  add  what 
there  I  had  to  omit. 

In  all  European  lands,  and  above  all  in  the 
countries  of  the  West,  there  is  none  without 
its  legend  of  King  Arthur.  The  Bretons 
claim  him  as  theirs,  and  the  places  of  his 
passage  and  exploit  are  familiar,  though  only 
the  echo,  only  the  phantom  of  a  great  fame 
ever  reached  Arvor.  In  the  Channel  and 
Scilly  Isles  the  story  runs  that  there  is  Lyon- 
esse,  and  that  Arthur  sleeps  in  a  cavern  of 
the  seas.  The  Cornish  folk  and  their  kindred 
of  Somerset  and  Devon  believe  there  is  not 
a  rood  of  ground  between  Camelot  and 

374 


Beyond  the  Blue  Septentrions 

Tintagel  where  the  great  King  has  not  dwelt 
or  passed.  Wales  calls  him  her  son,  and  his 
chivalry  her  children,  and  the  Cymric  poets  of 
a  thousand  mabinogion  have  sung  his  heroic 
fame*.  Clydesdale,  that  more  ancient  home 
of  the  Cymri,  has  dim  memories  older  than 
what  Taliesin  sang:  Arthur's  Seat  hangs 
above  Edinburgh,  a  city  so  old  that  a  thou- 
sand years  ago  its  earlier  name  was  forgotten ; 
and  from  the  Sidlaw  to  the  Ochil,  from  blue 
Demyat  to  grey  Schiehallion,  old  names  and 
broken  tradition  preserve  the  obscure  trails 
of  a  memory  fallen  into  oblivion,  but  not  so 
fallen  that  the  names  of  Arthur  and  Queen 
Guinevere  and  wild-eyed  Merlin  of  the  Woods 
have  ceased  to  stir  the  minds  of  the  few  who 
still  care  for  the  things  that  moved  our  fa- 
thers from  generation  to  generation.  The 
snow  of  the  Grampians  have  not  stayed  the 
wandering  tale :  and  there  are  still  a  few  old 
people  who  recall  at  times,  in  the  winter 
story-telling  before  farm-kitchen  fires,  how  the 
fierce  Modred,  King  of  the  North,  made 
Quee'n  Gwannole  his  own,  and  how  later,  in 
a  savage  revenge,  Arthur  condemned  her  to 
be  torn  asunder  by  wild  horses.  Lancelot 
passes  from  the  tale  before  it  crosses  the 
Border,  and  as  it  goes  north  (or  is  it  not  that 
as  it  comes  south?)  Merlin  is  no  more  a 

375 


Beyond  the  Blue  Septentrions 

courtier  but  a  wild  soothsayer  of  the  woods, 
Queen  Wanders  or  Gwannole  or  Guinevere 
is  tameless  as  a  hawk,  and  Arthur  himself, 
though  a  hero  and  great  among  his  kind,  is 
of  the  lineage  of  fire  and  sword. 

Where  is  Joyeuse  Gard?  Some  say  it  is 
in  the  isle  Avillion  off  the  Breton  shores: 
some  that  it  is  in  Avalon,  under  the  sacred 
hill  of  Glastonbury :  some  that  it  is  wet  with 
the  foam  of  Cornish  Seas :  others  aver  that  it 
lies  in  fathomless  silence  under  the  sundown 
wandering  wave  and  plunging  tide.  Another 
legend  tells  that  it  leaned  once  upon  the  sea 
from  some  lost  haven  under  Berwick  Law, 
perhaps  where  North  Berwick  now  is,  or 
where  Dirleton  looks  across  to  Fidra,  or 
where  the  seamews  on  ruined  Tantallon 
scream  to  the  Bass. 

Arthur  himself  has  a  sleeping-place  (for 
nowhere  is  he  dead,  but  sleeps,  awaiting  a 
trumpet-call)  in  "  a  lost  land  "  in  Provence, 
in  Spain,  under  the  waters  of  the  Rhine.  To- 
day one  may  hear  from  Calabrian  shepherd 
or  Sicilian  fisherman  that  the  Great  King 
sleeps  in  a  deep  hollow  underneath  the  Straits 
of  Messina.  And  strangest  of  all  (if  not  a 
new  myth  of  the  dreaming  imagination,  for  I 
have  not  been  able  to  trace  the  legend  be- 
yond a  modern  Slavonic  ballad)  among  the 

376 


Beyond  the  Blue  Septentrions 

Carpathian  Highlands  is  a  nameless  ancient 
tomb  lost  in  a  pine-forest,  where  at  mid- 
winter a  bear  has  been  seen  to  rise,  walking 
erect  like  a  man,  crowned  with  a  crown  of 
iron  and  gold  holding  a  single  shining  stone 
magnificent  as  the  Pole  Star,  and  crying  in  a 
deep  voice,  "I  am  Arthur  of  the  West,  who 
shall  yet  be  king  of  the  World." 

Strange  indeed,  for  here  among  the  debris 
of  the  lost  history  of  Arthur,  that  vast  sha- 
dowy kingly  figure  whose  only  kingdom  may 
have  been  the  soul  of  primitive  races,  and 
whose  sword  may  have  been  none  other  than 
the  imagination  that  is  for  ever  on  its  beauti- 
ful and  perilous  quest,  here  among  that 
debris  of  legend  scattered  backward  from  the 
realms  of  the  north  across  Europe  is  one, 
remote  as  it  is,  which  brings  us  back  to  the 
early  astronomical  myth  that  identifies  the 
great  Celtic  champion  with  the  chief  con- 
stellation of  the  north. 

But  as  I  have  heard  this  fragment  of  our 
old  lost  mythology  related  in  a  way  I  have 
not  seen  in  any  book,  I  will  give  it  here 
altered  but  slightly  if  at  all  from  one  of  the 
countless  legends  told  to  me  in  my  childhood. 

At  sunset  the  young  son  of  the  great  King 
Pendragon  came  over  the  brow  of  a  hill  that 

377 


Beyond  the  Blue  Septentrions 

stepped  forward  from  a  dark  company  of 
mountains  and  leaned  over  the  shoreless  sea 
which  fills  the  west  and  drowns  the  north. 
All  day  he  had  been  wandering  alone,  his 
mind  heavy  with  wonder  over  many  things. 
He  had  heard  strange  tales  of  late,  tales  about 
his  heroic  father  and  the  royal  clan,  and  how 
they  were  not  as  other  men,  but  half  divine. 
They  were  not  gods,  he  knew,  for  they  could 
be  slain  in  battle  or  could  die  with  the  crowd- 
ing upon  them  of  many  years :  but  they  were 
more  terrible  in  battle  than  were  the  greatest 
of  men,  and  they  had  vision  and  knowledge 
beyond  the  vision  and  knowledge  of  the 
druids,  and  were  lordly  beyond  all  men  in 
mien  and  the  beauty  of  courtesy,  and  lived 
beyond  the  common  span  of  years,  and  had 
secret  communion  with  the  noble  and  invisi- 
ble company.  He  had  heard,  too,  of  his 
destiny :  that  he,  too,  was  to  be  a  great  king, 
as  much  greater  than  Pendragon,  than  Pen- 
dragon  was  above  all  the  kings  of  the  world. 
What  was  Destiny,  he  wondered.  Then, 
again,  he  turned  over  and  over  in  his  mind 
all  the  names  he  could  think  of  that  he 
might  choose  for  his  own:  for  the  time  was 
come  for  him  to  put  away  the  name  of  his 
childhood  and  to  take  on  that  by  which  he 
should  be  known  among  men. 

378 


Beyond  the  Blue  Septentrions 

He  came  over  the  brow  of  the  hill,  and  out 
of  the  way  of  the  mountain-wind,  and,  being 
tired,  lay  down  among  the  heather  and  stared 
across  the  grey  wilderness  of  the  sea.  The 
sun  set,  and  the  invisible  throwers  of  the  nets 
trailed  darkness  across  the  waves  and  up  the 
wild  shores  and  over  the  faces  of  the  cliffs. 
Stars  climbed  out  of  shadowy  abysses,  and  the 
great  chariots  of  the  constellations  rode  from 
the  west  to  the  east  and  from  the  north  to 
the  south.  His  eyes  closed,  but  when  he 
opened  them  again  to  see  if  a  star  quivering 
on  the  verge  of  the  horizon  had  in  that  brief 
moment  sprung  like  a  deer  above  the  drown- 
ing wave  or  had  sunk  like  a  white  seabird 
passing  out  of  sight,  he  saw  a  great  and 
kingly  figure  standing  beside  him.  So  great 
in  stature,  so  splendid  in  kingly  beauty  was 
the  mysterious  one  who  had  so  silently  joined 
him,  that  he  thought  this  must  be  one  of  the 
gods. 

"  Do  you  know  me,  my  son  ? "  said  the 
kingly  stranger. 

The  boy  looked  at  him  in  awe  and  wonder, 
but  unrecognisingly. 

"  Do  you  not  know  me,  my  son  ?  "  he  heard 
again  .  .  .  "  for  I  am  your  father  Pendragon. 
But  my  home  is  yonder,  and  there  I  go  before 
long,  and  that  is  why  I  have  come  to  you  as 

379 


Beyond  the  Blue  Septentrions 

a  vision  in  a  dream  ..."  and,  as  he  spoke, 
he  pointed  to  the  constellation  of  the  Arth, 
or  Bear,  which  nightly  prowls  through  the 
vast  abysses  of  the  polar  sky. 

When  the  boy  turned  his  gaze  from  the 
great  constellation  which  hung  in  the  dark 
wilderness  overhead,  he  saw  that  he  was  alone 
again.  While  he  yet  wondered  in  great  awe 
at  what  he  had  seen  and  heard,  he  felt  him- 
self float  like  a  mist  and  become  like  a  cloud, 
and,  as  a  cloud,  rise  beyond  the  brows  of  the 
hills,  and  ascend  the  invisible  stairways  of  the 
sky. 

When  for  minutes  that  were  as  hours  he 
had  moved  thus  mysteriously  into  the  path- 
less and  unvisited  realms  of  the  air,  he  saw 
that  he  had  left  the  highest  clouds  like  dust 
on  a  valley-road  after  one  has  climbed  to  the 
summit  of  a  mountain :  nor  could  he  see  the 
earth  save  as  a  blind  and  obscure  thing  that 
moved  between  the  twilights  of  night  and 
dawn. 

It  seemed  to  him  thereafter  that  a  swoon 
came  over  him,  in  which  he  passed  beyond 
the  far-off  blazing  fires  of  strange  stars.  At 
last,  suddenly,  he  stood  on  the  verge  of 
Arth,  or  Arth  Uthyr,  the  Great  Bear.  There 
he  saw,  with  the  vision  of  immortal  not  of 
mortal  eyes,  a  company  of  most  noble  and 
380 


Beyond  the  Blue  Septentrions 

majestic  figures  seated  at  what  he  thought  a 
circular  abyss  but  which  had  the  semblance 
of  a  vast  table.  Each  of  these  seven  great 
knights  or  lordly  kings  had  a  star  upon  his 
forehead,  and  these  were  the  stars  of  the 
mighty  constellation  of  the  Bear  which  the 
boy  had  seen  night  after  night  from  his  home 
among  the  mountains  by  the  sea. 

It  was  with  a  burning  throb  at  his  heart 
that  he  recognised  in  the  King  of  all  these 
kings  no  other  than  himself. 

While  he  looked,  in  amazement  so  great 
that  he  could  hear  the  pulse  of  his  heart,  as 
in  the  silence  of  a  wood  one  hears  the  tap- 
ping of  a  woodpecker,  he  saw  this  mighty 
phantom-self  rise  till  he  stood  towering  over 
all  there,  and  heard  a  voice  as  though  an 
ocean  rose  and  fell  through  the  eternal 
silences. 

"  Comrades  in  God,"  it  said,  "  the  time  is 
come  when  that  which  is  great  shall  become 
small." 

And  when  the  voice  was  ended,  the  mighty 
figure  faded  into  the  blue  darkness,  and  only 
a  great  star  shone  where  the  uplifted  dragon- 
helm  had  brushed  the  roof  of  heaven.  One 
by  one  the  white  lords  of  the  sky  followed  in 
his  mysterious  way,  till  once  more  were  to  be 
seen  only  the  stars  of  the  Bear. 


Beyond  the  Blue  Septentrions 

The  boy-king  dreamed  that  he  fell  as  a 
falling  meteor,  and  then  that  he  floated  over 
land  and  sea  as  a  cloud,  and  then  that  he  sank 
as  mist  upon  the  hills  of  his  own  land. 

A  noise  of  wind  stirred  in  his  ears,  and  he 
felt  the  chill  dew  creep  over  his  hands  like 
the  stealthy  cold  lip  of  the  tide.  He  rose 
stumblingly,  and  stood,  staring  around  him. 
He  was  on  the  same  spot,  under  the  brow  of 
the  hill  that  looked  over  the  dim  shoreless 
seas,  now  obscure  with  the  dusk.  He  glanced 
upward  and  saw  the  stars  of  the  Great  Bear 
in  their  slow  majestic  march  round  the  Pole. 
Then  he  remembered. 

He  went  slowly  down  the  hillside,  his 
mind  heavy  with  thought.  When  he  was 
come  to  the  place  of  the  King  his  father,  lo, 
Pendragon  and  all  his  fierce  chivalry  came  out 
to  meet  him,  for  the  archdruid  had  foretold 
that  the  great  King  to  be  had  received  his 
mystic  initiation  among  the  holy  silence  of 
the  hills. 

"  I  am  no  more  Snowbird  the  child,"  the 
boy  said,  looking  at  them  fearlessly,  and  as 
though  already  King.  "  Henceforth  I  am 
Arth-Urthyr,1  for  my  place  is  in  the  Great 
Bear  which  we  see  yonder  in  the  north." 

1  Pronounced  Arth-Uir,  or  Arth-Ur.     In  ancient 
British  Arth  means  Bear,  and  Uthyr  great,  wondrous. 
382 


Beyond  the  Blue  Septentrions 

So  all  there  acclaimed  him  as  Arthur,  the 
wondrous  one  of  the  stars,  the  Great  Bear. 

"  I  am  old,"  said  Pendragon,  "  and  soon 
you  shall  be  King,  Arthur,  my  son.  So  ask 
now  a  great  boon  of  me  and  it  shall  be 
granted  to  you." 

Then  Arthur  remembered  his  dream. 

"  Father  and  King,"  he  said,  "  when  I  am 
King  after  you  I  shall  make  a  new  order  of 
knights,  who  shall  be  strong  and  pure  as  the 
Immortal  Ones,  and  be  tender  as  women,  and 
simple  as  little  children.  But  first  I  ask  of 
you  seven  flawless  virgin  knights  to  be  of  my 
chosen  company.  To-morrow  let  the  wood- 
wrights  make  for  me  a  round  dais  or  table 
such  as  that  where  we  eat  our  roasted  meats 
and  drink  from  the  ale-horns,  but  round  and 
of  a  size  whereat  I  and  my  chosen  knights 
may  sit  at  ease." 

The  King  listened,  and  all  there. 

"  So  be  it,"  said  the  King. 

Then  Arthur  chose  the  seven  flawless 
virgin  knights,  and  called  them  to  him. 

"  Ye  are  now  Children  of  the  Great  Bear," 
he  said,  "  and  comrades  and  liegemen  to  me, 
Arthur,  who  shall  be  King  of  the  West.  And 
ye  shall  be  known  as  the  Knights  of  the 
Round  Table.  But  no  man  shall  make  a 
mock  of  that  name  and  live :  and  in  the  end 

383 


Beyond  the  Blue  Septentrions 

that  name  shall  be  so  great  in  the  mouths 
and  minds  of  men  that  they  shall  consider  no 
glory  of  the  world  to  be  so  great  as  to  be 
the  youngest  and  frailest  of  that  knighthood." 

And  that  is  how  Arthur,  the  son  of  Pen- 
dragon,  who  three  years  later  became  King 
of  the  West,  read  the  Rune  of  the  Stars  that 
are  called  the  Great  Bear,  and  took  their 
name  upon  him,  and  from  the  strongest  and 
purest  and  noblest  of  the  land  made  Knight- 
hood, such  as  the  world  had  not  seen,  such 
as  the  world  since  has  not  known. 

Very  different,  a  cruder  legend  of  the  Pole 
star,  the  drift  of  which  I  heard  some  months 
ago  from  a  fisherman  of  Ross,  "  foregathered 
with  "  in  the  Sound  of  Morvern. 

One  day,  Finn,  before  he  was  born  the 
King  of  the  West,  a  thousand  years  earlier 
than  that  and  maybe  thousands  more  on  the 
top  of  that  thousand,  went  hunting  a  great 
bear  beyond  the  highest  mountains  in  Ross 
and  Sutherland.  It  came  to  the  Ord,  and 
then,  seeing  there  was  no  more  land,  it  went 
into  the  sea  with  an  awesome  plunge,  like 
Iceland  in  the  story  before  it  swam  away 
from  Scotland,  so  that  the  fish  were  knocked 
out  of  the  nets  and  the  fishing  cobles  were 

384 


Beyond  the  Blue  Septentrions 

thrown  on  the  shores  like  buckies,  and  the 
tides  ran  like  hares  till  they  leaped  into  the 
sea  again  at  the  rocks  of  Wick  and  over 
Cromarty  Cliffs.  Aye,  it  is  said  a  green  wave 
ran  right  through  the  great  Kirk  at  Inver- 
ness ;  and  that  away  across  the  lands  of  Mac- 
kenzie and  Chisholm,  of  Eraser  and  Gordon, 
a  storm  of  foam  blew  like  snow  against  the 
towers  and  steeples  of  Aberdeen.  At  least 
all  this  might  well  have  been,  if  in  those  old 
ancient  days  there  had  been  any  Aberdeen 
or  Inverness  to  see  it,  or  if  there  were  cobles 
and  nets  then,  as,  for  all  you  or  I  or  the  wind 
know,  there  may  have  been.  Well,  the  Bear 
swam  away  due  north,  and  Finn  after  it  and 
his  great  hounds  Luath  and  Dorch.  It  took 
them  a  month  to  come  up  with  it,  and  then 
it  was  among  mountains  of  solid  ice  with  the 
sea  between  hard  as  granite.  Then  it  came 
to  the  place  where  there's  an  everlasting 
Rainbow.  The  Beaj  climbed  this,  to  jump  to 
the  other  side  of  the  Pole,  but  Luath  ran  up 
one  side  and  Dorch  the  other  and  Finn  hurled 
his  great  shining  spears,  one  after  the  other: 
so  that  down  the  bear  came  with  a  rush,  and 
so  great  was  the  noise  and  stramash  that  the 
icebergs  melted,  and  out  flew  thousands  of 
solanders  and  grey  swans  and  scarts  and  God 
knows  what  all,  every  kind  of  bird  that  is 

385 


Beyond  the  Blue  Septentrions 

with  a  web  to  its  foot.  The  hounds  fell  into 
the  water,  and  the  Bear  lay  on  a  floe  like  a 
wounded  seal,  but  Finn  never  moved  an  inch 
but  put  spear  after  spear  into  the  Bear. 
"Well,  you're  dead  now,"  he  said;  "and  if 
you're  not,  you  ought  to  be,"  he  added,  see- 
ing that  the  Bear  was  up  again  and  ready 
to  be  off. 

"  This  can't  go  on,"  said  God  Allfather,  so 
He  swung  a  noose  and  sagged  up  the  Bear 
into  the  black  Arctic  sky.  But  the  hounds 
hung  on  to  its  tail,  and  so  were  carried  up 
too.  And  as  for  Finn,  he  took  the  hero-leap, 
and  with  one  jump  was  on  the  Pole,  and 
with  the  next  was  in  the  Northman's  Torch 
(Arcturus),  and  with  the  third  was  on  the 
Hill  of  Heaven  itself.  And  that's  where  he 
went  back  to  on  the  day  he  died  after  his 
three  hundred  years  of  mortal  life.  He's 
never  moved  since,  and  he  won't  move  again, 
till  Judgment  Day.  And, by  the  same  token, 
you  can  see  the  Great  Bear  prowling  round 
the  Pole  still,  and  Finn  the  Watchman  never 
letting  him  go  by,  night  or  day,  day  or  night, 
and  far  away  down  are  the  two  Hounds  that 
herd  the  Great  Bear  and  his  mate.  And 
when  these  come  too  near,  Finn  hurls  his 
spears,  and  that's  when  we  see  the  Northern 
Lights.  And  behind  the  streamers  and  the 
386 


Beyond  the  Blue  Septentrions 

auroras  and  the  rainbows  and  the  walls  of 
ice  Finn  looks  into  the  Garden  of  Eden — 
Paradise  as  they  say,  just  the  Flatheanas  of 
the  old  tales,  the  old  songs.  And  who  would 
be  doubting  it? 


387 


WHITE   WEATHER 

A   MOUNTAIN   REVERIE 

To  be  far  north  of  the  Highland  Line  and 
among  the  mountains,  when  winter  has  not 
only  whitened  the  hill-moors  but  dusted  the 
green  roofs  of  every  strath  and  corrie,  may 
not  have  for  many  people  the  charm  of  the 
southward  flight.  But  to  the  hill-born  it  is  a 
call  as  potent  as  any  that  can  put  the  bitter- 
sweet ache  into  longing  hearts.  There  is 
peace  there :  and  silence  is  there :  and,  withal, 
a  beauty  that  is  not  like  any  other  beauty. 
The  air  and  wind  are  auxiliary ;  every  cloud 
or  mist-drift  lends  itself  to  the  ineffable  con- 
spiracy; the  polar  breath  itself  is  a  weaver 
of  continual  loveliness  often  more  exquisitely 
delicate  than  the  harebell,  often  incalculable 
or  immeasurable,  or  beautiful  with  strange- 
ness, as  moonlight  on  great  waters,  or  the 
solitary  torch  of  Jupiter  burning  his  cold 
flame  in  the  heart  of  a  mountain-tarn.  There 
is  no  soundlessness  like  it.  And  yet  the 
silence  is  relative ;  is,  in  a  word,  but  an  imagi- 
388 


White  Weather 

nation  laid  upon  an  illusion.  If  there  is  no 
wind  on  the  moor,  there  may  be  a  wandering 
air  among  the  lower  heights.  If  so,  many 
hollows  of  rocks,  caverns  lost  in  bracken, 
caves  of  hill-fox  and  badger,  sudden  ledges 
haunted  by  the  daw  and  the  hoodie  and  filled 
with  holes  as  though  the  broken  flutes  of  the 
dead  forgotten  giants  of  old  tales,  will  make 
a  low  but  audible  music;  a  lifting  and  falling 
sighing,  with  singular  turnings  upon  itself  of 
an  obscure  chant  or  refrain,  that  just  as  one 
thinks  is  slipping  into  this  side  knowledge 
and  is  almost  on  the  edge  of  memory,  slides 
like  rain  along  that  edge  and  vanishes,  vague 
as  an  unremembered  fragrance.  Or  if  the 
suspense  be  so  wide  that  not  a  breath  moves 
lower  than  where  the  corries  climb  towards 
the  very  brows  of  the  mountains,  one  will 
surely  hear,  far  up  among  the  time-hollowed 
scarps  and  weather-sculptured  scaurs,  that 
singular  sound  which  can  sink  to  a  whimper- 
ing, as  of  unknown  creatures  or  lost  inhuman 
clans  strayed  and  bewildered,  or  can  be  as 
though  unseen  nomads  were  travelling  the 
mountainway  with  songs  and  strange  flutes 
and  thin  wailing  fifes,  or  can  rise  to  a  con- 
fused tumult  as  of  embattled  hosts,  or  to  a 
crying  and  a  lamentation  more  desperate  than 
the  cries  of  men  and  a  lamenting  as  of  that 

389 


White  Weather 

mysterious  and  dreaded  clan,  the  Grey  Chil- 
dren of  the  Wind.  The  wind,  in  truth,  is  al- 
most always  to  be  heard,  near  or  far.  Some- 
times the  eye  may  learn,  where  the  ear  fails : 
as  when  one  is  in  a  glen  or  strath  or  on  a 
shore  or  moor,  and,  looking  up,  may  see 
smoke  rising  from  the  serrated  crests  or 
the  curving  sky-lines,  like  the  surf  of  vast 
billows — to  realise  soon,  that  this  volcanic 
apparition  means  no  more  than  that  vast  vol- 
umes of  driven  snow  are  being  lifted  by  the 
north  wind  and  whirled  against  and  over  the 
extreme  mountain-bastions.  Troth  chaidleas 
's  a  ghlcann  an  t-aile,  "  when  the  air  sleeps  in 
the  glens,"  goes  a  Gaelic  saying,  "  you  may 
hear  the  wind  blowing  in  the  high  corries 
mar  chaithream  Mar,"  like  the  symphony  of 
harps. 

Then,  too,  it  is  rare  that  the  snowy  wil- 
derness is  without  voice  of  mountain  torrent, 
for  even  when  frost  holds  the  hill-world  in  a 
grip  so  terrible  that  the  smaller  birds  cannot 
fly  in  the  freezing  air,  there  are  rushing  burns 
of  so  fierce  a  spate  that  the  hands-of-ice  are 
whirled  aside  like  foam,  and  the  brown  wave 
leaps  and  dashes  from  rock  to  rock,  from 
granite  ledge  to  peaty  hollow,  from  brief  tur- 
bulent channels  to  chasms  and  crevasses 
whence  ceaselessly  ascends  the  damp  smell  of 

390 


White  Weather 

churned  surge,  above  which  as  ceaselessly 
rises  a  phantom  spray.  Again,  there  is  that 
strange,  continual  earth-movement,  the  alarm 
of  all  unfamiliar  wayfarers.  Who  suddenly 
unloosened  that  rush  of  rock  and  earth 
yonder?  What  enemy  moved  that  boulder 
that  leapt  and  hurtled  and  crashed  down- 
ward and  beyond,  but  a  score  yards  away? 
Of  what  elfin-artillery  are  those  rattling 
stones  the  witness?  What  hand,  in  the 
silence,  thrust  itself  through  the  snow  and 
crumbled  that  old  serrated  ledge,  where,  a 
week  ago,  the  red  deer  stood  sniffing  the 
wind,  where,  yesterday  perhaps,  the  white 
ptarmigan  searched  the  heather? 

Moreover  we  are  in  the  domain  of  the 
eagle,  the  raven,  and  the  corbie.  They  are 
seldom  long  silent  there.  And  that  sudden 
call  on  the  wind?  .  .  .  what  but  the  Merry 
Folk,  Clann  Aighean  Siubhlach,  the  Wander- 
ing Deer-Clan,  passing  like  drifting  shadows 
over  white  heather-pastures  lost  to  view?  It 
is  long  since  the  love-belling  of  the  stags 
made  musical  the  mountain-side :  was  not 
"  the  Silence  of  the  Deer  "  the  first  sign  of 
winter  come  again  ?  But  that  cry  was  the  cry 
of  hunger — a  guth  acaimeach,  a  sobbing  voice, 
as  once  I  heard  a  prosaic  roadmender  unpro- 
saically  and  with  kindly  sympathy  allude  to 

391 


White  Weather 

the  winter-bleat  of  the  snow-famished  deer. 
And  that  other  bleating:  of  sheep  left  upon 
the  hills,  and  overtaken  by  the  White 
Weather.  How  goes  the  sound,  the  trans- 
lated echo  of  their  mournful  iteration,  that  is 
now  a  long  ululation  of  lament  and  now  a  ris- 
ing and  falling  bleating  as  of  confused  words  ? 
The  same  roadmender  I  speak  of  said — after 
himself  lamenting  in  sympathy  tha  'm  fuachd 
a  muigh's  a  staigh  an  diugh  .  .  .  "  the  cold  is 
outside  and  inside  to-day  " — that  it  went  like 
this:  Tha  sinn  cearr,  tha  sinn  cearr,  tha  sinn 
cearr  's  gun  fhios  againn!  ..."  We  are 
astray,  we  are  astray,  we  are  astray  and  have 
lost  our  bearings !  " 

Up  here  everything  may  have  a  snow- 
change  "  into  something  rich  and  rare."  It 
was  in  a  hill-solitude,  in  white  weather  such 
as  this,  that,  for  example,  I  heard  from  an 
old  shepherd  names  for  the  eagle,  the  corbie, 
and  the  ptarmigan  that  I  had  not  elsewhere 
heard,  nor  have  seen  in  print,  though  for 
long  now  I  have  been  collecting  all  whenever 
and  wherever  chance  permits  the  Gaelic  and 
Lowland  names  of  birds  and  animals.  The 
corbie  he  called  An  t-Eun  Acarachd,  the  Mer- 
ciless, literally,  "  the  bird  without  compas- 
sion," no  doubt  with  thought  of  its  love  for 
young  lambs  or  its  savage  lust  for  the  eyes 

392 


White  Weather 

of  stricken  or  dying  sheep.  The  ptarmigan 
he  called  An  t-Eun  (Adhar  or  Aidhre),  the 
bird  of  the  snow  or  frost — though  this  is  but 
a  variant,  of  course,  of  the  more  familiar 
Sneacag  or  Eun-an-Sneachel.  When  he  spoke 
of  the  eagle  simply  as  An  t-Eun  Mbr,  the 
great  bird,  that  seemed  less  noteworthy,  but 
when  he  added,  Abu!  An  t-Eun  Mbr  Abu,  I 
was  puzzled.  I  thought  he  meant  aboo  to 
simulate  the  lolair's  cry,  though  it  sounded 
much  more  like  the  muffled  hoot  of  the  great 
owl  than  the  eagle's  screech.  He  said  he  re- 
membered that  was  the  eagle's  name  in  an 
old  tale  he  had  often  heard  his  mother  tell 
when  he  was  a  child.  I  never  thought  of  it 
as  Abu,  however,  till  one  day  I  came  upon 
this  word  in  a  Gaelic  dictionary  and  found 
it  entered  as  being  an  ancient  war-cry  of  the 
Gael.  Truly,  a  fit  survival,  for  a  wild  slogan 
that  has  ages  ago  died  away  from  the  Gaelic 
hills :  to  live  still  among  these  desolate  moun- 
tains, around  those  wind-tortured  scarps  and 
scaurs,  in  the  scream  of  the  golden  eagle. 
The  old  man  had  a  special  bird-name  for 
most  of  the  birds  he  spoke  of  or  about  which 
I  asked  him.  Doubtless  he  was  as  good  a 
naturalist  and  with  as  good  a  right  to  make 
names  as  any  ornithologist  who  would  know 
what  the  old  man  could  not  know,  and  would 

393 


White  Weather 

be  familiar  with  common  and  other  names 
thai  would  be  unfamiliar  there  among  the  far 
hills,  or,  at  least,  to  the  old  mountaineer,  for 
whom  the  hill-birds  were  the  best  of  com- 
pany. For  the  curlew,  for  instance,  though 
he  knew  the  common  Scots  name,  Whaup, 
he  had  the  good  name  An  t-Eun  Chaismeachd, 
"  the  bird  of  alarm  " — how  good  a  name 
(though  perhaps  equally  applicable  to  the 
grey  plover,  the  green  whistler,  or  the  lap- 
wing) must  be  obvious  to  all  who  have  walked 
the  moorland  or  travelled  the  hillside.  And 
where  an  islesman  or  a  man  of  the  mainland 
coasts  would,  for  swiftness,  use  a  comparison 
such  as  cho  luath  ri  sgadan,  "  as  swift  as  a 
herring,"  he  would  say,  cho  luath  ris  na 
feadag,  "  as  swift  as  the  plover." 

White  Weather,  he  said,  was  always  first 
"  called  "  by  the  linnet,  the  "  heather  lintie  " 
so  loved  of  Scots  song-writers,  to  which  he 
gave  several  names  ("  out  of  a  good  ten  that 
will  be  known  to  any  one  whatever  "),  one  a 
curious  blend  of  Scots-Gaelic,  Shilfa-monaidh 
(i.e.,  the  moor-chaffinch),  another  a  pretty 
name,  Brcacan-Bcithc,  "  little  speckled  one  of 
the  birch/'  But  even  he,  for  all  his  hill- 
wisdom,  could  not  tell  me  why  it  is  that  when 
the  lapwing  come  again  after  the  great 
winter-end  storm  about  mid-March,  welcome 

394 


White  Weather 

pioneers  of  the  Spring  that  is  stealing  slowly 
up  through  the  glens  and  straths  of  the  south, 
they  always,  if  they  nest  on  the  slope  of  a  hill- 
side, choose  the  east  side  for  their  unsheltered 
homes  and  where  to  lay  their  eggs.  Do  they 
so  love  the  bleak  wind  oT  the  east?  Hardly 
any  bird  takes  so  little  trouble  with  the  nest : 
often  it  is  but  the  frost-hardened  delve  of  a 
cow's  hoof,  a  tangle  of  bent,  or  the  hollow  of 
a  misplaced  stone.  I  have  heard  that  this  is 
truer  of  the  mainland  than  of  the  isles,  but  I 
have  not  found  it  so.  Last  March  or  April 
I  remember  that  on  the  long,  low-hilled  and 
mainly  "  upland  "  island  where  I  then  was, 
not  a  single  lapwing's  nest  but  was  on  the 
east  slope  of  grassy  brae  or  sloping  moor  or 
pasture.  But  though  he  could  not  say  a  word 
on  so  strange,  almost  so  inexplicable  a  habit, 
he  could  be  positive  as  to  the  age  of  the 
eagle,  and  especially  as  to  one  aged  iolair 
that  he  often  saw  on  Maol-Aitonnach,  the 
great  hill  that  was  half  the  world  and  more 
to  him:  namely,  that  the  king-bird  lived  to 
be  three  hundred  years.  And  he  computed  it 
thus;  that  an  eagle  lives  three  times  less 
than  an  oak,  and  three  times  more  than 
a  deer.  There  is  a  familiar  proverb  that 
"Tri  aois  feidh  aois  firein;  tri  aois  firein  aois 
craoibh  dharaich"  "  thrice  the  age  of  a  deer, 

395 


White  Weather 

the  age  of  an  eagle "  ("  ferain,"  "  fireun," 
and  "  fiolair  "  are  variants  of  "  iolair,"  whose 
more  ancient  name  is  "  antar  "  (an  t-ar),  one 
of  the  oldest  names  in  the  Gaelic  language) ; 
"  thrice  the  age  of  an  eagle,  the  age  of  an 
oak."  The  stag  lives  a  hundred  years,  or 
so  it  is  universally  believed:  therefore  the 
eagle  lives  three  hundred,  and  the  oak's  age 
is  at  least  nine  hundred  years.  I  recall,  in 
connection  with  the  eagle,  a  singular  saying 
which  I  heard  many  years  ago  and  have  not 
since  heard  or  anywhere  encountered,  to  the 
effect  that  between  dusk  and  dawn  a  bat's 
flight  will  be  the  equivalent  of  a  thousand 
miles,  that  between  dawn  and  dusk  a  swallow 
will  cover  a  thousand  miles,  and  that  a  thou- 
sand miles  is  the  measure  of  an  eagle's  flight 
between  sunrise  and  sunset. 

Well,  I  must  leave  Maol-Ationnach,  and 
the  snow-held  hills.  Everywhere,  now,  the 
White  Weather  may  have  spread.  Far  south, 
listeners  may  hear  the  honk-honk  of  the  travel- 
ling solander,  that  most  musical  and  thrilling 
of  all  nocturnal  sounds  or  of  winter-dawns : 
or,  like  phantom-voices  from  the  world  of 
dreams,  the  kuilliyak-ee,  kuilliyak-o  of  the  wild 
swans,  the  Clann  righ  fo  gheasan,  the  En- 
chanted sons  of  Kings,  who,  as  they  wheel 
through  the  snowy  twilight  under  the  dawn- 

396 


White  Weather 

star  may  remember  the  dim  lands  of  the 
north,  and  a  great  mountain  that  rises  among 
white  and  silent  hills  and  looks  down  upon  a 
black  tarn  I  know  of,  so  dark  in  the  grip  of 
black-frost,  and  so  strangely  spared  of  the 
snow,  that  not  a  white  wing  rests  there,  or 
floats  overhead,  but  is  mirrored  as  an  en- 
chanted sail  in  an  enchanted  sea. 


397 


ROSA  MYSTICA 
(AND  ROSES  OF  AUTUMN) 

.  .  .  Rosa  Sempiterna 

Che  si  dilata,  rigrada,  e  ridole 

Odor  di  lode  al  Sol.  .  .  . 

Sitting  here,  in  an  old  garden  by  the  sea,  it 
is  difficult  for  me  to  realise  that  the  swallow 
has  gone  on  her  long  flight  to  the  South,  that 
last  night  I  heard  countless  teal  flying  over- 
head, and  before  dawn  this  morning  the 
mysterious  honk-honk  of  the  wild-geese.  A 
white  calm  prevails.  A  sea  of  faint  blue 
and  beaten  silver,  still  molten,  still  luminous  as 
with  yet  unsubdued  flame,  lies  motionless  be- 
neath an  immeasurable  dome  of  a  blue  as  faint, 
drowned  in  a  universal  delicate  haze  of  silver- 
grey  and  pearl.  But  already  a  change  to  pale 
apple-green  and  mauve  is  imminent.  A  single 
tern  flashes  a  lonely  wing  along  a  grey-green 
line  that  may  be  where  sky  and  sea  meet,  or 
may  be  the  illusion  of  the  tide  refluent  from 
green  depths.  On  the  weedy  rocks  I  cannot 
see  even  a  sleeping  seamew :  on  the  havencrl 

398 


Rosa  Mystica 

stretch  of  yellow-white  sand  a  dotterel  runs  to 
and  fro  in  sudden  aimless  starts,  but  as  sud- 
denly is  still,  is  all  but  unseen  with  her  breast 
against  a  rock  covered  with  the  blue-bloom  of 
mussels,  and  now  is  like  a  shadow  licked  up 
by  twilight. 

Along  the  husht  garden-ways  beside  me  and 
behind  me  are  roses,  crimson  and  yellow,  sul- 
phur-white and  pale  carnation,  the  blood-red 
damask,  and  a  trailing-rose,  brought  from 
France,  that  looks  as  though  it  were  live  flame 
miraculously  stilled.  It  is  the  hour  of  the 
rose.  Summer  has  gone,  but  the  phantom- 
summer  is  here  still.  A  yellow  butterfly 
hangs  upon  a  great  drooping  Marechal  Niel : 
two  white  butterflies  faintly  flutter  above 
a  corner-group  of  honey-sweet  roses  of 
Provence.  A  late  hermit-bee,  a  few  linger- 
ing wasps,  and  the  sweet,  reiterated,  insistent, 
late-autumn  song  of  the  redbreast.  That  is 
all.  It  is  the  hour  of  the  rose. 

"C'est  I'heure  de  la  rose 

L'heure  d'ambre  et  flamme, 
Quand  dans  mon  ante 
Je  sens  une  Blanche  Rose 
Eclose." 

To-night  the  sea-wind  will  go  moaning  from 
the  west  into  the  dark  north :  before  dawn  a 

399 


Rosa  Mystica 

steely  frost  will  come  over  the  far  crests  of 
the  hills.  To-morrow  the  garden  will  be  deso- 
late: a  garden  of  phantom  dreams.  They 
have  waited  long,  spell-bound!  but  the  en- 
chantment is  fallen;  in  a  few  hours  all  shall 
be  a  remembrance.  What  has  so  marvellously 
bloomed  thus  late,  so  long  escaped  devastating 
wind  and  far-drifting  rains  and  the  blight  of 
the  sea,  will  pass  in  a  night.  Already,  a  long 
way  off,  I  hear  a  singular,  faint,  humming 
sound,  like  stifled  bees.  So  ...  the  foam  of 
storm  is  on  the  skerries  of  the  seaward  isles. 
Already  from  the  north,  a  faint  but  gathering 
chill  comes  on  the  slanting  wings  of  twilight. 
I  rise  with  a  sigh,  thinking  of  an  old  forgotten 
refrain  in  an  old  forgotten  poem: 

"Ged  tha  thu  'n  diugh  'a  d'aibheis  fhuar, 
Bha  thu  nair  'a  d'aros  righ — " 

"  (Though  thou  art  to-day  a  cold  ruin 
Thou  wert  once  the  dwelling  of  a  king.)  " 

In  the  long  history  of  the  Rose,  from  the 
time  when  the  Babylonians  carried  sceptres 
ornamented  now  with  this  flower  now  with 
the  apple  or  lotus,  to  the  coming  of  the  Dam- 
ask Rose  into  England  in  the  time  of  Henry 
VII. :  from  the  straying  into  English  gardens, 
out  of  the  Orient,  of  that  lovely  yellow  cab- 
400 


Rosa  Mystica 

bage-rose  which  first  came  into  notice  shortly 
after  Shakespeare's  death,  or  from  Shake- 
speare's own  "  Provencal  rose,"  which  is  no 
other  than  the  loved  and  common  cabbage- 
rose  of  our  gardens :  from  the  combes  of 
Devon  to  the  straths  of  Sutherland,  to  that 
little  clustering  rose  which  flowered  in  Surrey 
meads  in  the  days  of  Chaucer  and  has  now 
wandered  so  far  north  that  the  Icelander  can 
gather  it  in  his  brief  hyperborean  summer: 
from  Keats's  musk-rose — 


"The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 
The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves — ' 


to  that  Green  Rose  which  for  more  than  half 
a  century  has  puzzled  the  rose-lover  and  been 
a  theme  of  many  speculations  ...  a  thousand 
wise  and  beautiful  things  have  been  said  of 
this  most  loved  of  flowers  and  not  a  few  errors 
been  perpetuated. 

What  has  become  of  the  Blue  Roses  to 
which  in  1800  a  French  writer,  Guillemeau, 
alludes  as  growing  wild  near  Turin?  They 
are  no  less  phantoms  than  some  of  the  rose- 
allusions  which  the  poet  has  made  sacrosanct, 
that  to  the  Rhetorician  have  become  an  ac- 
cepted convention.  Again,  we  are  told  and 
retold  that  the  cult  of  the  rose  is  a  modern  and 
401 


Rosa  Mystica 

not  an  ancient  sentiment.  Even,  it  is  said, 
the  allusions  of  the  Latin  poets  are  not  those 
of  lovers  and  enthusiasts.  It  is  the  Rose  of 
Catullus,  we  are  reminded,  that  blooms  in  the 
old  Italic  literature,  the  flower  of  festival,  of 
Venus  and  Bacchus,  alluded  to  more  for  its 
associations  and  its  decorative  value  than  for 
love  borne  to  it  or  enthusiasm  lit  by  it  as  by  a 
fragrant  flame. 

All  this  may  be  so,  and  yet  I  am  not  per- 
suaded that  the  people  of  ancient  days  did 
not  love  this  flower  of  flowers  as  truly  as,  if 
perhaps  differently  than,  we  do.  It  is  true 
that  the  ancients  do  not  appear  to  have  re- 
garded nature,  either  in  the  abstract  or  in  the 
particular,  in  the  way  characteristic  of  peo- 
ples of  modern  times  and  above  all  of  our 
own  "time.  But  literary  allusiveness  does  not 
reveal  the  extent  or  the  measure  of  the  love  of 
objects  and  places.  It  is  almost  inconceivable, 
for  example,  that  so  beauty-loving  a  people  as 
the  Greeks  did  not  delight  in  the  rose.  The 
fact  that  only  a  mere  handful  of  roses  may 
be  culled  from  all  the  poetry  of  Hellas,  here  a 
spray  from  Sappho,  a  wine-flusht  cluster  from 
Anacreon,  a  dew-wet  bloom  from  Theocritus, 
a  few  wild-roses  from  the  Anthology,  an  epi- 
thet from  Homer,  an  image  from  Simonides 
or  Pindar,  a  metaphor  in  some  golden  mouth, 
402 


Rosa  My stic a 

this  paucity — so  singular  compared  with  the 
Rose  of  Poetry  in  our  English  speech,  from 
Chaucer's  "  Rose  of  Rhone  "  to  Mr.  Yeats's 
"  Rose  on  the  Rood  of  Time,"  loved  and  sung 
through  a  thousand  years.  Such  paucity  does 
not  necessarily  mean  that  only  a  few  poets 
casually  alluded  to  this  supreme  flower,  and 
that  it  was  unnoticed  or  unloved  of  the  many. 
Doubtless  rose-chaplets  were  woven  for 
lovers,  and  children  made  coronals,  and  at 
mourning  ceremonies  and  marriage  festivals 
these  flowers  were  strewn.  The  very  fact  that 
Sappho  called  the  rose  the  queen  of  flowers 
showed  that  it  was  distinguished  from  and 
admired  among  even  the  violets,  pre-eminently 
the  flowers  of  Athens.  That  she  likened  a 
young  maiden  to  a  rose  is  as  indicative  as 
when  an  Arab  poet  likens  his  love  to  a  delicate 
green  palm,  or  as  when  a  northern  poet  speaks 
of  her  as  a  pine-tree  swaying  in  the  wind  or 
a  wave  dancing  on  the  sea. 

Then,  again,  the  Rose  would  not  have  been 
consecrated  to  Venus,  as  an  emblem  of 
beauty:  to  Eros,  as  an  emblem  of  love:  to 
Aurora,  as  an  emblem  of  Youth :  and  to  Har- 
pocrates,  as  an  emblem  of  silence:  if  this  sym- 
bolic usage  were  not  such  as  would  seem  fit 
and  natural.  That  roses,  too,  were  in  general 
demand  is  evident  alone  from  their  far- 

403 


Rosa  Mystica 

famed  culture  and  the  great  trade  in  them  at 
Paestum,  the  Lucanian  town  colonised  by  the 
Greek  Sybarites  five  hundred  years  B.C.  All 
mediaeval  and  later  literature  is  full  of  the 
beauty  and  fragrance  of  the  rose,  but  were  it 
not  so,  one  could  infer  that  the  flower  was 
held  in  high  esteem  from  the  fact  that  it  has 
for  ages  been  the  wont  of  the  Popes  to  have 
a  golden  rose  exquisitely  finished,  and,  when 
consecrated,  to  present  it  to  some  Catholic 
monarch  as  a  token  of  special  regard.  Thus 
it  seems  to  me  that  were  there  not  a  single 
allusion  to  the  rose  by  any  great  poet  from 
Homer  to  Sappho,  from  Anacreon  to  Theoc- 
ritus, we  might  yet  discern  the  love  of  the 
ancient  Greeks  for  this  flower  from,  let  us 
say,  a  single  surviving  phrase  such  as  the  an- 
onymous lovely  epitaphial  prayer-poem  in  the 
Anthology : — "  May  many  flowers  grow  on 
this  newly-built  tomb;  not  the  dried-up 
Bramble,  or  the  red  flower  loved  by  goats ;  but 
Violets  and  Marjoram,  and  the  Narcissus 
growing  in  water;  and  around  thee  may  all 
Roses  grow." 

In  Persia  and  the  East,  from  Hindustan  to 
Palestine,  from  remotest  Asia  to  Abyssinia 
and  Barbary,  the  Rose  has  ever  been  loved 
and  honoured.  Sadi  of  the  Rose-garden  and 
many  another  has  sung  of  it  with  ecstasy. 
404 


Rosa  My stic a 

The  Hindu  god  Indra,  even  Buddha  himself, 
suffered  for  robbing  a  paradisaical  garden  of 
a  rose.  How  suggestive  it  is,  that  the  Eve  of 
the  Aztec  garden  of  Eden  sinned,  not  for 
plucking  an  apple  but  a  rose :  it  was  a  fatal 
rose,  too,  that  the  Eve  of  primitive  Mexican 
legend  gathered  to  her  undoing  and  that  of 
all  her  descendants. 

What  innumerable  legends  centre  round 
this  flower.  In  every  country  and  in  either 
hemisphere,  north  of  the  Equator,  the  poet 
and  the  myth-maker  and  the  legend- weaver 
have  occupied  their  imaginations  to  enhance 
its  beauty,  to  deepen  its  significance. 

Long  ago  Bion  told  how  the  rose  sprang 
from  the  blood  of  the  wounded  Adonis,  the 
supreme  type  of  beauty,  and  of  the  tears  of 
Venus.  An  older  Hellenic  legend  declares 
that  the  rose  was  originally  white,  till  Eros, 
dancing  among  the  gods,  upset  a  goblet  of 
nectar  upon  Venus's  flower,  which  thereupon 
became  red.  Christian  legend,  on  the  other 
hand,  would  have  it  that  the  red  rose  sprang 
from  the  brands  which  had  been  lighted  at 
Bethlehem  to  burn  to  death  a  Christian  virgin- 
martyr.  Remote  from  Syria  as  from  Greece, 
the  Scandinavian  legend  arose  that  this  flower 
was  white  till  Baldur,  the  god  of  Youth  and 
Love,  bled  at  the  coming  of  Christ — akin  to 

405 


Rosa  My stic a 

which  is  a  Gaelic  legend,  that  the  flower  was 
white  till  a  drop  of  Christ's  blood  fell  from 
the  Cross  ...  a  variant  of  which  is  that  the 
robin,  who  plucked  at  the  thorns  in  Christ's 
forehead  till  they  stained  its  breast  red,  leaned 
exhausted  against  a  wild  white-rose  on  Cal- 
vary, which  ever  after  was  red  as  blood.  I 
do  not  know  the  origin  of  the  legend  save  that 
it  is  Teutonic  in  its  present  colour  and  shape, 
of  how  the  Crown  of  Thorns  was  woven  of 
the  Briar-Rose,  and  how  the  drops  that  fell 
from  the  thorns  became  blood-hued  blooms. 
Teutonic  also,  I  think,  is  the  legend  that  Judas 
made  a  ladder  of  the  rose-briar  with  which 
to  reach  the  closed  doors  of  heaven ;  hence 
why  it  is  that  the  name  Judas-Stairs  is  given 
to  the  Briar  in  some  parts  of  Germany  to  this 
day,  and  why  the  scarlet  hips  are  called 
Judasbeeren. 

Most  beautiful  of  surviving  rose-customs  is 
that  akin  to  what  is  still  done  in  some  remote 
parts  of  Europe,  the  placing  of  an  apple  into 
the  hand  of  a  dead  child,  so  that  the  little 
one  may  have  something  to  play  with  in  Para- 
dise. I  know  of  a  dead  Irish  girl  into  whose 
right  hand  was  placed  a  white  rose,  and  of  a 
drowned  fisherman  in  whose  hand  was  placed 
a  red  rose,  symbols  of  spiritual  rebirth  and 
of  deathless  youth.  Against  this  must  be  set 
406 


Rosa  Mystica 

the  strange  and  widespread  aversion  to  throw- 
ing a  rose  into  a  grave,  or  even  letting  one  fall 
or  be  lowered  there.  ("  It  is  throwing  red  life 
away "  it  was  explained  to  me  once, — with 
the  grim  addition,  "  and  Death  will  at  once  be 
hungry  for  more  of  the  rose-thrower.") 

Again,  I  recall  an  old  legend  of  the  last 
rose  of  summer,  long  anterior  to  the  familiar 
song  so  named:  a  legend  of  how  at  Samhain 
(Hallowmass)  when  of  old  was  held  the  fes- 
tival of  summer  ended  and  of  winter  begun,  a 
young  Druid  brought  a  rose  to  the  sunward 
Stones  and,  after  consecration  and  invocation, 
threw  it  into  the  sea. 

To-day,  sitting  in  my  old  garden  amid  many 
roses,  and  looking  westward  across  a  waveless, 
a  moveless  sea,  now  of  faint  apple-green  and 
fainter  mauve  lost  in  a  vast  luminous  space  of 
milky,  violet-shadowed  translucency,  I  dream 
again  that  old  dream,  and  wonder  what  its 
portent  then,  what  its  ancient  significance,  of 
what  the  symbol  now,  the  eternal  and  un- 
changing symbol.  For  nothing  is  more  strange 
than  the  life  of  natural  symbols.  We  may 
discern  in  them  a  new  illusion,  a  new  meaning : 
the  thought  we  slip  into  them  may  be  shaped 
to  a  new  desire  and  coloured  with  some  new 
fantasy  of  dreams  or  of  the  unspoken  and 
nameless  longing  in  the  heart :  but  the  symbol 
407 


Rosa  Mystica 

has  seen  a  multitude  of  desires  come  and  go 
like  shadows,  has  been  troubled  with  many 
longings  and  baffled  wings  of  the  veiled  pas- 
sions of  the  soul,  and  has  known  dreams,  many 
dreams,  dreams  as  the  uncounted  sand,  the 
myriad  wave,  the  illimitable  host  of  cloud, 
rain  that  none  hath  numbered.  The  symbol 
of  the  Lily  has  been  the  chalice  of  the  world's 
tears ;  the  symbol  of  the  Rose,  the  passion  of 
uplifted  hearts  and  of  hearts  on  fire;  in  the 
symbol  of  the  Cross  has  dwelled,  like  frag- 
rance in  a  flower,  the  human  Soul.  The  salt, 
mutable,  and  yet  unchanging  sea  has  been  the 
phantom  in  which  empires  have  seen  Time  like 
a  shadow,  the  mirage  by  which  kings  have 
wept  and  nations  been  amorous  in  a  great 
pride.  The  Wind,  that  no  man  has  seen,  on 
whose  rushing  mane  no  hand  has  been  laid, 
and  in  whose  mouth  has  been  set  no  bridle 
since  the  world  swung  out  of  chaos  on  cha- 
riots of  flame,  .  .  .  has  not  that  solitary  and 
dread  creature  of  the  deeps  been  fashioned  in 
our  minds  to  an  image  of  the  Everlasting,  and 
in  our  hearts  been  shaped  to  the  semblance  of 
a  Spirit? 

A  rose,  laid  on  a  stone-altar  in  the  sunfire, 

and  thrown  into  the  sea,  with  strange  hymns, 

with  supplication  .  .  .  what  a  symbol  this  of 

the  desires  that  do  not  die  with  nations,  the 

408 


Rosa  My stic a 

longings  that  outlive  peoples,  the  grass  of 
prayer  that  Time  has  trampled  upon  and  left 
and  forever  leaves  green  and  virginal? 

To  give  that,  that  lovely  fragrant  flame  of 
the  old  material  earth,  to  the  altars  of  the 
bowed  spirit :  to  clothe  it  in  the  fire  of  heaven  : 
to  commit  it  to  the  unassuaged  thirst  of  the 
everlasting  graves  of  the  sea. — Surely,  here, 
an  image  of  that  Rosa  Mundi  which  has  been 
set  upon  the  forehead  of  the  world  since  time 
was,  that  Rose  of  Beauty,  that  Rose  of  Time, 
that  Rose  of  the  World  which  the  passion  of 
the  soul  has  created  as  a  prayer  to  the  Inscrut- 
able: the  Rose  of  the  Soul,  of  you,  of  me,  of 
all  that  have  been,  of  all  that  are,  of  all  un- 
born, that  we  lay  upon  our  places  of  prayer, 
and  offer  to  the  Secret  Fires,  and  commit  to 
desolation,  and  sorrow,  and  the  salt  and  avid 
hunger  of  Death?  What  came  of  that  mys- 
tical wedding,  of  the  world  we  know  and  the 
world  we  do  not  know,  by  that  rose  of  the 
spirit,  committed  thus  in  so  great  a  hope,  so 
great  a  faith?  The  Druid  is  not  here  to  tell. 
Faith  after  Faith  has  withered  like  a  leaf. 
But  still  we  stand  by  ancestral  altars,  still  of- 
fer the  Rose  of  our  Desire  to  the  veiled  Mys- 
tery, still  commit  this  our  symbol  to  the 
fathomless,  the  everlasting,  the  unanswering 
Deep. 

409 


THE  STAR  OF  REST 

A    FRAGMENT 

Rest — what  an  OCEANIC  word !  I  have 
been  thinking  of  the  unfathomable,  unpene- 
trable word  with  mingled  longing,  and  won- 
der, and  even  awe. 

What  depths  are  in  it,  what  infinite  spaces, 
what  vast  compassionate  sky,  what  tenderness 
of  oblivion,  what  husht  awakenings,  what 
quiet  sinkings  and  fadings  into  peace. 

Waking  early,  I  took  the  word  as  one  might 
take  a  carrier-dove  and  loosed  it  into  the 
cloudy  suspense  of  the  stilled  mind — and  it 
rose  again  and  again  in  symbolic  cloud- 
thought,  now  as  an  infinite  green  forest  mur- 
murous with  a  hidden  wind,  now  in  some 
other  guise  and  once  as  Ecstasy  herself,  lis- 
tening. 


410 


AN    ALMANAC 

Our  Elder  Brother  is  a  Spirit  of  Joy:  there- 
fore, in  this  new  year,  Rejoice! 

In  January  the  Spirit  dreams, 

And  in  February  weaves  a  Rainbow, 

And  in  March  smiles  through  Rains, 

And  in  April  is  clad  in  White  and  Green, 

And  in  May  is  the  Youth  of  the  World, 

And  in  June  is  a  Glory, 

And  in  July  is  in  two  Worlds, 

And  in  August  is  a  Colour, 

And  in  September  dreams  of  Beauty, 

And  in  October  Sighs, 

And  in  November  Wearieth, 

And  in  December  Sleeps. 

"  I  am  Beauty  itself  amid  Beautiful  Things  " 
(Bhagavad  Gita). 


411 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

By  Mrs.  William  Sharp 

THE  contents  of  this  volume  represent  the  earlier 
and  the  later  writings  of  William  Sharp  as  "Fiona 
Macleod,"  separated  by  an  interval  of  ten  years. 
"The  Tragic  Landscapes"  from  The  Sin-Eater  were 
written  in  1893.  "The  Silence  of  Amor"  written  in 
1895  formed  a  section  of  the  ist  Edition  of  From 
the  Hills  of  Dream  (1896)  and  was  published  sep- 
arately in  book  form  in  America  in  1902  by  Mr.  T. 
Mosher  (Portland,  Maine).  One  or  two  of  these 
prose  poems  were  incorporated  in  later  work — in 
the  Introduction  to  The  Sin-Eater,  and  in  "lona," 
for  example. 

The  Nature  -  Essays  gathered  together  in  the 
posthumous  volume  Where  the  Forest  Murmurs 
(Newnes,  1906)  were  written  during  the  years 
1903-5  for  Country  Life,  at  the  request  of  Mr.  P. 
Anderson  Graham  (to  whom  the  volume  was  dedi- 
cated) with  the  exception  of  "At  the  Turn  of  the 
Tide"  which  appeared  in  The  Fortnightly  in  1906, 
and  of  the  fragment  "Rest"  found  on  the  author's 
writing  table,  after  his  death  at  Castello  di  Maniace, 
Sicily. 

The    titular    nature-paper    "Where    the    Forest 

Murmurs"  forms  a  part  of  the  second  volume  of  se. 

lected  tales  published  in  the  Tauchnitz  collection 

in  1905  under  the  title  of  The  Sunset  of  Old  Tales. 

4I2 


Bibliographical  Note 

The  first  volume,  Wind  and  Wave,  appeared  in  1902; 
both  have  been  admirably  translated  into  German 
by  Herr  Winnibald  Mey  under  the  titles  of  Wind  und 
Woge  and  Das  Reich  der  Traume  and  published  by 
Herrn  Eugen  Diederichs  (Jena  and  Leipzig).  Sev- 
eral of  the  tales  have  been  translated  into  French 
by  Monsieur  Henri  Davray  and  have  appeared  in 
Le  Mercure  de  France,  and  will  eventually  be  issued 
in  book  form;  they  have  also  been  translated  into 
Swedish  and  into  Italian.  The  Tauchnitz  volume 
of  The  Sunset  of  Old  Tales  contains  an  "After  Ded- 
ication" which  may  very  appropriately  be  re- 
printed as  conclusion  to  the  present  volume  of 
Nature-Essays: 

"Had  I  known  in  time  I  would  have  added  to  the 
Dedicatory  Page  the  following  tribute,  which  now 
I  must  be  content  to  add  here:  yet  not  wholly  re- 
gretfully so,  for,  with  its  recognition  of  a  new  and 
beautiful  justice,  as  well  as  a  rare  and  beautiful 
generosity,  it  forms,  because  of  the  great  deed,  which 
it  records,  a  fitting  close  to  this  book  and  Wind  and 
Wave.  In  both,  perhaps,  is  heard  too  much,  too 
often,  the  refrain  of  Gaelic  sorrow,  the  refrain  of  an 
ancient  people  of  the  hills  and  glens  and  grey  wan- 
dering arms  of  the  sea,  in  the  days  of  farewell,  or, 
at  best,  of  a  dubious,  a  menacing  transmutation. 
Decade  by  decade,  year  by  year,  Scotland  has  been 
more  and  more  entangled  in  the  mesh  of  the  crudest 
and  most  selfish  landlordism.  From  the  Hebrid 
Isles  and  the  mountains  of  Sutherland  to  the  last 
heather  walls  of  Cheviot,  the  blight  of  a  fraudu- 
lent closing  of  the  hills  and  the  glens,  the  woods 
and  the  waters,  has  shut  away  their  own  land  from 
the  Scottish  people.  Surely  one  may  hope  at  last 
for  the  coming  of  the  great  Restitution,  of  a  nobler 

413 


Bibliographical  Note 

ideal  ownership,  when  one  has  lived  to  witness  so 
great  and  so  significant  a  public  deed  as  that  of  Mr. 
Cameron  Corbett. 

DEDICATED   ALSO 
TO 

CAMERON  CORBETT,  M.P. 

whose  free  gift  to  the  people,  for  all  time,  of  a 
vast  tract  of  Mountain-lands  and  Loch-shores,  in 
Eastern  Argyll,  is  not  only  the  noblest  contempo- 
rary gift  bestowed  on  Scotland,  but  an  augury  of 
the  possible  redemption  of  that  all  but  'preserved- 
away'  country  from  the  grip  of  selfish  landowners 
and  from  the  injustice  of  fraudulent  and  often  in- 
iquitous game-laws." 


414 


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